


A Royal Engagement

by bradleymartin



Category: The Society (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, F/M, Friends to Enemies to Lovers, Modern Royalty, aka the only Princess Diaries I care about, background Sam/Grizz, loosely based on Princess Diaries 2, they're aristocrats so they're all getting together with distant cousins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:00:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 67,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24363196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bradleymartin/pseuds/bradleymartin
Summary: After Cassandra died, Allie left their small kingdom of Westham to avoid being coronated. Several months later, she’s forced to come home and take her rightful place as Queen. There are only two problems: a marriage law and an alternate line of succession that will give Harry Bingham the crown if Allie fails.
Relationships: Harry Bingham/Allie Pressman
Comments: 33
Kudos: 133





	1. I don't overthink it, I just carry on

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is loosely based on Princess Diaries 2, but you certainly don't need to have seen the movie to understand this fic.

Allie is hungover. Sam is, too, but he was lucky enough to fall asleep. She’s using him as a pillow; she knows it’s far less comfortable than the actual pillow just a couple feet away from her, but sometime during the morning of downing ibuprofen and throwing up and eating cinnamon rolls and discussing getting McDonald’s (since they’re in America anyway, for the first time in a while) and trying to nap, they’d ended up sprawled across her king-sized hotel room bed. She’s twenty-five now, and hangovers seem to be the only thing she can count on changing every year — getting exponentially _worse_.

The bedroom door is thrown open, and it takes all of Allie’s currently-meager willpower to look over. She’s expecting Elle — her bodyguard and the only other person Allie knew to be in the hotel suite — but she _doesn’t_ expect Grizz to be standing there, too. Allie scrambles up in bed, not liking the fact that the simple motion still makes her feel like she might vomit despite the fact that it’s late afternoon. Of all the people she could’ve ever expected to show up in this New York City hotel, Grizz would’ve been one of the absolute last.

“ _Grizz_?” she asks, torn up between being shocked and happy and sick and confused and excited and just so full of _dread_ for what his arrival must mean. She quickly glances at Sam, but he’s deep into his nap. She’s glad that at least one of them gets some respite.

“Hello, Your Royal Highness,” he says with a restrained smile that immediately turns into a grin.

And she almost throws up all over again. She just looks at him for a long minute, frown deepening so much it feels like it’s permanently etching itself into her face. She knows he doesn’t mean anything by it — he’s just incurably polite and proper — but just _hearing_ it brings back such a flood of memories and emotion that she can’t stop them. She’s barely managed to get Elle to just call her _ma’am_ , and Allie knows the second they get back onto Westham soil, Elle will be right back to the old, archaic system of address.

“I didn’t know the Prime Minister made house calls,” Allie says dryly. She tries to run her fingers through a section of her blonde curls, but her hand gets stuck not even halfway down. Giving up, she just contents herself with straightening her green, oversized St. Andrews sweatshirt that was bunched up at the waistband of her black leggings. She continues to stare at Grizz steadily, partially because her brain is operating far below capacity, but mostly because she wants to force him to talk.

“Ma’am, should we, um, let Lord Eliot rest?” Grizz says with a glance at Sam, gesturing vaguely out into the sitting room.

Allie looks back at Sam, nodding. She slides off the bed and drapes the pile of blankets over him. She wonders if she should be embarrassed, looking like this. She doesn’t need a mirror to know that even aside from her excessively casual attire, her eyes are bloodshot and she hasn’t washed off the makeup she put on _yesterday_.

If it were anyone but Grizz, she might be more concerned. She’s only known Grizz since he was elected five years ago, but he quickly became the only silver lining of all those Parliament meetings she was forced to attend. Their friendship came swiftly, cultivated as much by conversation as by looks of understanding during those Parliament meetings — the kind Allie knew she could only have with someone whose brain operated the same way as her own. Someone who was _meant_ to be her friend.

And, even here, they fall back into their rhythms just as immediately. Elle goes off to her own room, reluctantly and only at Allie’s insistence. Grizz goes to the kitchenette and flicks on the electric kettle for tea. Allie sits down at one of the barstools at the island, just staring at his back — wanting to be petty and unhelpful — as he opens cabinet after cabinet. Finally he finds plain, white mugs — small and sterile and not the big, comforting kind they’re used to using. He puts one in front of each of them anyway.

“Did Parliament, like, ship you here to kidnap me?” Allie asks, unable to stop herself from prying for information.

Grizz holds up the only two boxes of tea he can find — Earl Grey and chamomile. One in each hand, he raises one and then the other a few times in quick succession, until Allie can’t help but laugh and point to the Earl Grey. He opens the box with a smile. “ _Kidnap_ is a strong word,” he finally answers, a half-smile that looks fake on his face.

“Okay, so, maybe a reconnaissance mission, then?”

“I came here on my own, ma’am.”

“Please,” she says, putting both elbows onto the counter and resting her entire face in her hands, “just don’t call me anything at all if you’re going to do that.”

When she looks at him through her fingers, his eyes are wide and he says, “If you wish.” The kettle beeps, and he turns around to grab it. She plops her tea bag into the water once he fills it, and he does the same with his own. For just a second, this feels normal — like they’re at the castle again, bound by their mutual love of tea and bitching about Allie’s fellow aristocrats. But they’re not. They’re in a hotel room in New York City, halfway around the world from Westham, and he looks terrified for reasons she wishes he would just _tell her_.

She wonders if he’s only here because he regrets what he did.

“If you came here on your own,” Allie says slowly, absent-mindedly tugging her tea bag through the water as she leans her chin hard on her other hand. This is the longest she’s gone sitting up all day, and her body is already protesting. “ _If_ you did, it’s only because you feel bad that it’s sort of your fault I’m here in the first place.” She raises her eyebrows at him.

He smiles sadly at her. “I don’t regret that, you know,” he says. “Even after everything.”

That brings the memory jolting back to her like nothing else could’ve. The news that Cassandra had died during the night — her heart condition taking a not unexpected but an unexpectedly _early_ fatal turn. Allie had grown up thinking that the chronic nature of the illness would make it easier to bear when the time came. But the vague _eventually_ becoming the all too concrete _yesterday_ hurt her worse than she ever could’ve imagined.

And she’d imagined it thousands of times.

But all her imaginings were just a resolve to be strong for her dad, for Gordie, for her county. How could she have been prepared for the plane ride to Westham, the way her tears just flowed and never stopped, the crowds of people, the funeral that was about _Queen_ Cassandra instead of Cassandra _her sister_. That utter loneliness. Cassandra had been there since she was born — older and taller and smarter and _better_. Allie didn’t feel very good at being a _person_ , even with an older sister ever-ready to give excellent advice.

Even with all of that — the whole, endlessly long funeral that revolved around Westham and its dead queen — it didn’t happen until they were in the cemetery with Cassandra buried underground. Not until the Duke of Lynmere walked by her, his back reclining in the slightest bow of acknowledgement. It was different than the looks of sympathy or respect she had gotten all day — it went a step further, to a reverence only given to one person. At that, Allie had felt herself turn to stone.

The tears stopped and the fears came.

Sure, when she was younger, she was well aware that she was second in line. And when their mother died and Cassandra took over, she was again well aware that she was _first_ in line. The line of succession was just a fact, and only true for that particular point in time. Allie was just as aware that Cassandra was happily married to Gordie, and someday there would be a baby or two or three that would make a nice, solid barrier between Allie and the crown. And that was fine — better than fine. She was very content to be the spare in the _heir and the spare_ equation.

It wasn’t until that little bow that she realized.

She was queen.

Well, not _quite_ yet. Coronations happened quickly in Westham, and Allie knew it could happen as early as tomorrow. The sun hadn’t even set on Cassandra’s funeral when Allie had grabbed Grizz. She wasn’t really sure why she chose him. Maybe it was the fact that she liked him more than most people. There was also the fact that he had a stake in this world, but he wasn’t an aristocrat.

She knew she couldn’t leave by her normal channels — that is, the royal jet — but she didn’t know how to be a regular person the way Grizz did. He hadn’t liked the idea, but he had helped her. She doesn’t think that anything but the fact that she begged him could have convinced him to put her, still crying, onto a commercial airline — albeit first class. She hadn’t even looked at where he was sending her, but soon she was in Frankfurt with a herd of bankers. By the time Elle caught up with her, she was using her time to plan her next location. Sam showed up a couple months later, and it was as though her life had reverted straight back to how it was before Cassandra died. Allie could pretend to be second-in-line indefinitely.

Why not?

Judging by Grizz’s mere presence right now, she’d be willing to bet quite a lot that he has a long list of reasons why not.

“They can’t coronate me if they can’t catch me,” she says, a half-smile on her face.

“That’s worked so far, I suppose.” He says it dryly, as disapprovingly as he would probably allow himself.

After a pause, she says conversationally, “I think we might go to Boston next. Then Chicago or Toronto.” That look of shock on his face is enough. She brings her mug to her lips and takes a still-burning hot sip. “Maybe Denver after that? Then California — do the whole wine-tasting thing up the coast. Then Hawaii, then maybe Australia. And, after that, we were thinking—”

“Your Royal Highness,” he interrupts, setting his own mug back on the counter too hard, some of the tea sloshing out of it, “you have to come back with me.”

She can barely stop herself from smirking, just glad to finally get him to admit it. “Do I?”

“Westham can’t function without a monarch, ma’am,” he says, talking much more quickly than normal, as though Allie broke open a dam. “You know that no legislation can be signed into law without you. There’s a stack of bills half as tall as you are. There was a structural issue with the bridge, and we could only push legislation diverting funds to fix it because we felt it had to be deemed an emergency. And, Your Royal Highness, it’s been _eight months_ since you left — we’re nearly at a shutdown. We need to push a budget through for the next fiscal year—”

“Isn’t that why my father is there?” Allie interrupts, trying and failing to not sound ice cold. “He was in charge for years, between my mom dying and Cassandra getting coronated.”

“You know the special rules for regents are for when it’s just a matter of waiting for the heir to be of age. You certainly already _are_ of age.”

“Grizz…” She sighs. She doesn’t want to be callous, but when she ran away, she _ran away_. “I’m just not the queen. Cassandra’s the queen. Okay?”

“Her Majesty is dead,” he says, sounding frustrated now.

They just stare at each other for a long minute, and then something occurs to her. “Grizz,” she says, sliding off her stool, “do you want some macarons?”

She doesn’t give him time to reply before walking over to a bag lying against the coffee table in the sitting room. She pulls out a light pink box and brings it over, grabbing a rose one for herself. She extends a hazelnut one to Grizz, knowing it’s his favorite. She sits back down, sliding the box a foot or two so it’s in between them, and then just stares at him.

“Thank you,” he says slowly, taking a bite but clearly not recovered from the change of topic.

“They’re from Paris.”

He nods. “They’re very good.” He pops the rest of the macaron in his mouth.

Her eyes narrow. “I got them two days ago. In Paris. Paris, which you can get to in an hour by train from Westham.” His face stiffens, and she knows he knows what she’s about to say. He takes a step away from the counter and runs his hand through his hair. “But instead of coming to Paris — which, in my opinion, is also just a _better_ city than New York, like, in general — you had to — what? — get express permission to take the royal jet over here, sit in a plane for eight hours, and then take a cab ride here which alone probably took as much time as getting all the way to Paris would have.… Which you could’ve done, if you needed to see me. Two days ago.”

Grizz nods, but for the first time, he looks caught. “That’s all true, Your Royal Highness,” he says, and finally takes a nearby towel and wipes up the few drops of tea he’d spilt.

“So. What’s changed in the last two days?” He doesn’t say anything, or even look up, so she continues, “The old white dudes and their dumb laws, some structural bridge issues, the stack of bills waist high, government shutdown — I’m not denying those are serious problems. But those are surely problems that aren’t materially worse now than two days ago, right? So, then.… What is it?”

He looks back up at her, his brown eyes solemn, his face pinched together. Then he finally walks around that wide expanse of island between them and sits down on the stool next to her. He doesn’t look any less tense sitting down. “In Parliament,” he says slowly, “they’re talking — well, they’ve _been_ talking, but it’s starting to sound serious. They’re talking about the alternate line of succession.”

Allie blinks. She doesn’t know why, but that punches her somewhere deep in her gut. “They can’t do that,” she says blankly, nothing more than confused. _Cassandra_ was queen. Her _father_ is king.

“You know they can. There’s no monarch right now. There’s no queen.”

“My dad is there—”

“You know King James is just a regent. He isn’t _you._ ”

“I mean, like, technically, isn’t he, like, twelfth in line, all on his own?” She’s starting to sound belligerent. She gets up from the stool again, and paces a few feet away and then back. “He’s my father and also my, like, eighth cousin. He can be king as much as anybody—” She’s rambling, and she knows it. She doesn’t know if it’s possessiveness, or arrogance, or just simply that she can’t accept living in a world where up is down and down is up. Monarchies don’t just _change_.

_She_ can change, but _they_ can’t.

“Allie,” Grizz says, standing up again, but he doesn’t move from in front of her. Allie’s eyes widen, staring up, up, _up_ at him, towering over him even when they’re both standing, let alone when only he is. “I don’t know what you care about anymore. Not your country, apparently. But what about your family? What about Cassandra? She wouldn’t have wanted this. You and Cassandra — you were the only two left in the direct line, for hundreds of years, all the way back to the _start_ of Westham. Your mother and her father and his mother and her mother and her father and back and back and back and it all comes down to you — just you. And you’re still willing to throw that away?”

Allie feels tears pricking at her eyes, and she leans her entire upper body onto the counter, resting her forehead onto her hands. She feels like she might throw up again, but all she can see in the darkness are the covers of tabloid after tabloid with her own face on it — all of her exploits, out there in black and white, circulated around the country that thinks her family has been chosen by some higher power to lead. Then there was Cassandra — kind and perfect and smart and everything you’d want in a queen. _Thank God_ , the country probably used to say when talking about Allie. _Thank God Cassandra is older_.

“You know what you’re asking me,” she says, feeling a tear fall down her face, but she wipes it away furiously. She stands up, looking at Grizz. “Don’t you? You want me to go lead a place I’ve barely lived. No one will like me. No one will respect me. All there is out there — all over the trashy magazines and gossip columns and all over the internet — is just my sex life. Everywhere. I’m just a slut to them, I’m a silly little girl to all those old white men of Parliament. They might feel like they don’t _have_ to listen to my dad, because of the grace of God or whatever. But me? They’ll just think God is dumb and won’t listen to me anyway. You’re asking me to do this — to spend the rest of my life in a battle. With Parliament, with the _world_. That’s what you want from me, Grizz. All because you need my literal blood. Do you get how fucked up this is?”

Now Grizz is pacing the length of the room. When he stops, she thinks she sees tears shining in his own eyes. They just stare at each other. “What would you have me do? We can’t run from this anymore. That’s all I know. That’s the only answer I have.”

He sounds so solemn, so sure of everything. She wishes, just once, she could feel that way, too. “I can’t face it alone,” she says softly. Something in his words have given her resolve without her even realizing it. “You have to stay by my side, you know.”

He nods quickly, a hint of a smile on his face now. “Always, Your Majesty.”

Allie half-smiles at him — she’s a little jealous of him, coming here with a mission and succeeding with relative ease. She has no idea even how to respond to that title — she doesn’t even understand the way her insides twist just at hearing it. But before she can come up with anything to say, the door to the bedroom opens, and both she and Grizz start and look over. Sam is standing there, staring at Grizz with an absolutely stunned look on his face. “How long was I out?” he signs to Allie.

“A thousand years,” she signs back, laughing.

“Why is he here?”

“To kidnap the Queen.”

Sam chuckles and walks over. Allie sits back down hard, glancing back as Sam fiddles with his plain grey t-shirt. At least he looks farther from death than Allie herself does. But he doesn’t know Grizz nearly as well — being exempt from the Parliament meetings that she’s often been forced to attend — so she understands his discomfort. “Prime Minister,” Sam says formally.

“Lord Eliot,” Grizz says awkwardly.

“So,” Sam signs and says aloud, for Grizz’s benefit. “Did the Prime Minister succeed in his mission?”

“You can call me Grizz, too, my Lord.”

“He did succeed,” Allie interjects. “We leave first thing in the morning. You’ll stay with me at the Palace, of course.”

She looks at Grizz as she says it. He inclines her head at her, just the tiniest bit. She nods at him, too. She knows the pact that they’ve formed between them in the last half-hour is stronger than if they’d signed it in blood.

“I was looking forward to Boston,” Sam is saying. “But I suppose it’s time.”

“He loves architecture,” Allie tells Grizz conspiratorily, glad to have someone to focus on besides the two of them.

As she intended, Sam and Grizz start their own conversation, and she barely needs to say more than a word now and then. She takes a long drink of her tea. It’s nearly cold now.

* * *

It always comes back quickly. The dress, the hair, the tiara, the makeup, the makeup artist trying to shame her into waxing her eyebrows into submission. Allie won’t so much as let him come near her with tweezers. Despite all that, she’s primped and pressed and powdered so quickly that she doesn’t have a chance to do more than vaguely ask Elle if she knows where her father is before Allie is whisked off to the ballroom. 

Sam escorts her, as he usually does. He only seems a little unsteady as he does so, but she doesn’t blame him. They usually aren’t thrown into a royal function with such a complete lack of time for mental preparation. It doesn’t help that the tabloids are quite devoted to the two of them, especially lately — between Allie’s affinity for men in kilts, and Sam’s interest in men _period_ , there’s no shortage of stories written about the globe-trotting royal cousins. 

“Presenting,” Mr. Farrow, the announcer, says when the double-doors into the ballroom are thrown open for them, “Lord Samuel Eliot and Her Royal Highness Allie, Crown Princess of Westham.”

The ballroom is full of people, all of them staring up at them. Allie just nods her acknowledgment to no one in particular, tugging Sam’s arm gently so that he’ll lead them down the stairs. The ballroom is huge, but the white marble floors are barely visible through the throng of people. It’s the middle of summer, but the way the light reflects off the crystal chandeliers onto the gold wallpaper makes it look like it could be Christmas. That almost brings a memory jolting back to her, but she forces herself to stay in the moment. When she looks around, she recognizes faces, but merely familiar rather than welcome. She scans the crowd for her father — expecting to see the swell of people curved in somewhere, creating a wide, overly-respectful berth. But he doesn’t seem to be there. 

The eyes mostly seem to be on her. She’s decked out in a pale blue gown, one she likes rather more than most of the gowns she’s forced into. Maybe that’s just because she watched Cinderella a few too many times as a kid. But the self-confidence makes her feel admired rather than scrutinized, at least for a few minutes. 

“Back under the microscope,” Sam signs once they’re all the way down the stairs. 

“Do you see my father?” she signs back. 

He shakes his head, and when she follows his gaze in another wide sweep of the ballroom, she feels her tiara detach from her hair. It doesn’t even seem possible — between the intricate braids of hair and the thick layers of hairspray, it should have been all but glued into place. She has a moment of blinding panic at the idea of that delicate web of white gold and diamonds falling onto the floor. 

And yet the clanking of it against the floor never comes. 

She almost finds it funny, as she looks frantically around to see what happened. She can tell herself she doesn’t care about royalty or Westham or money or any of it, but she couldn’t stop any panic over that symbol of all of it falling and breaking. Maybe the blood does run deep. That’s what Cassandra always told her, but she’s never really believed it.

She hadn’t even realized a waiter did it, but there he is, holding an hors d’oeuvres tray and staring at her with wide, apologetic eyes. He opens his mouth once or twice, as though too horrified to speak. “It’s fine,” she says quickly. Campbell emerges from behind her and into her line of sight, holding the tiara. She falters for a moment, and then assures the staff again, “Really, it’s not a problem.”

Campbell waves him away as though his gesture has more authority than her words, and her teeth snap together. 

“Y-your Grace,” the waiter says quickly to Campbell before turning back to her and saying emphatically, “I’m so sorry, Your Majesty.” Allie doesn’t even have a chance to do more than gape at his incorrect title usage before he scurries off with only one more terrified look at Campbell. 

She turns to Campbell, watching as the grin spreads over his face as he turns the tiara around and around in his hands. “ _Your Majesty_ ,” he repeats sardonically. There’s something about his expression and even the way he moves his hands that has _destruction_ reverberating throughout every one of her instincts. She glances at Sam, whose face is set into completely neutral lines. It’s been a long time since she’s seen him look like that.

“You can go,” Allie signs to Sam, detaching her arm from his and lightly pushing him away. Sam’s eyes widen just slightly as they flicker to Campbell and then back to her. It only takes a second before he nods and walks off. In just a moment, he’s swallowed by the crowd, and she and Campbell are alone. 

The tiara gets minutely closer to his face as he examines it. The way he moves it is reverent, almost sensual. Suddenly she feels nauseated, and then he finally looks fully at her, a wide grin transforming his face into something friendly and happy that she doesn’t believe for a second. “Hey, Allie,” he says. “Super excited the gang’s all back together, huh?”

Allie makes a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat and clasps her hands together in the folds of her gown. Campbell looks at the world like an experiment, and she tries to examine him the same way. “How are you, Campbell?”

“You’re still as clumsy as ever?”

“I didn’t really think that was my rep, to be honest. And I’m usually quite aware of it.” She thinks about continuing to play it cool, but just the sight of him holding onto her crown is making her go insane. She reaches out for it, but he doesn’t move. “Campbell,” she says, not really knowing her voice could sound that authoritative in just two syllables. Not that it has any impact whatsoever on him. 

“Sure,” he agrees, “tilt your head down and I’ll put it back for you.”

Her chin juts upward at that, and his grin widens so much it turns lopsided. She feels the presence of someone next to her, and that familiar black suit and blonde bob in her peripheral vision tells her it’s Elle. “Your Grace,” Elle says to Campbell, with such exaggerated politeness that it sounds viciously sarcastic. 

“Is this really the battle you want to fight?” Allie asks him. 

“I suppose there will be others.” He laughs. “God, you take everything far too seriously.” He extends the tiara as casually as though he’s just passing the salt at dinner, and Elle snatches it from him, reaching up to put it in place in Allie’s hair. “I’m glad you’re back,” Campbell tells Allie. 

“Me too.” It comes out more sarcastically than she intends, and he chuckles. 

“You and me,” he says, pausing to gesture between them in a way she doesn’t like — she doesn’t even want implied equivalency between them, “we’re the only two who keep things interesting around here. Right? I mean, I guess there’s always Harry, too.” She looks up, inwardly cursing her lack of a poker face. He smirks, and she knows she’s nothing but transparent. “Though he’s interesting in more of a… can’t-look-away-from-a-car-crash way, huh?”

She just shrugs; it’s too late to pretend to be indifferent, but that won’t stop her. “Well,” she says with forced calm, “enjoy your evening, Campbell.”

“You too, Allie.”

When she turns around, her dad is standing right next to Elle, both of them giving her commiserating looks. She just frowns at James, not at all surprised at all by his sudden appearance. “Hey, Dad,” she says when she makes her way over to him. “You could’ve, like, stepped in.”

“You’ve always got it covered,” he says, grinning at her. James always radiates an absolutely chaotic energy; if he hadn’t been tethered down by his family and country, Allie isn’t sure what he would’ve ended up doing. He pulls her into a crushing hug, and it isn’t until that moment that she realizes she hasn’t even seen him since Cassandra’s funeral. She hugs him back tightly. “I’m glad you’re back, Al.”

“I’m not _,_ ” she mutters as she pulls away. It’s only been a few minutes, and she already feels like years have been taken off her life. She looks up at him with what she’s sure if a petulant expression on her face.

“Unfortunately, there’s something else you’re not going to like.” There’s a smile playing at his mouth, and her eyes narrow. “You have to dance with _all_ the eligible bachelors.”

“ _Why_?” she asks, her voice reaching such a high pitch that it cracks.

James gestures behind her, and she looks. There’s Daniel Winwood, the Duke of Lynmere, who would be a decently attractive man, if it weren’t for the fact that he’s in his late thirties. Not to mention— “He’s my _second cousin_ ,” Allie hisses, turning back to her dad. “He’s not _eligible_. That’s not what _eligible_ means.”

She frantically turns back to Lynmere, and he’s bowing deeply at James. “Once removed,” James whispers in her ear. “He’s a Duke.”

“We’re resorting to my _cousins_ , now?”

“Honestly, you know it isn’t uncommon.”

“ _So_? Have you seen how hideous all those British royals are, Dad? I _have_ , and let me tell you — it isn’t a great advertisement for marrying a second cousin.”

Lynmere doesn’t seem at all fazed by this conversation, because he extends his hand to her with a slight bow. She vacillates just a for a second. Then she inhales a fortifying breath and takes it, being pulled into a waltz.

From there, she is — quite literally — passed from man to man. From Lynmere to King Gordon’s older brother, Sir Perry; to the youngest son of the Earl of Rule, who’s only thirteen; to an English Baron, Lord Merritt, who dances as though he’s landing a plane. Over his shoulder, she sees Sam, Gordie, and even Elle giggling together manically. If it weren’t for Lord Merritt dancing entirely too close to her, she would’ve glared at them.

To her extreme relief, the Baron stops abruptly. At first, she just notices the hand tapping his shoulder, and then she looks at the man attached to it.

A wide grin bursts across her face. It’s all she can do to say a polite goodbye to Lord Merritt before accepting Harry’s proffered hand and being pulled back into the dance. Quicker than she’d like to admit, all the tension from the last few dances — quite a rigorous round of immersion therapy back into her old life — evaporates away. She hasn’t seen Harry since he was eighteen, but that little grin on his face hasn’t changed. 

It took her a long time to realize why the way he looked at her made her feel _special_. Then, at their last party together before he went off to college, she saw that grin and it occurred to her that he looked _surprised_ to find himself smiling. She hasn’t been able to get it out of her mind ever since. The years pass but that smile doesn’t change.

She wonders who else he looks at like that. 

“Welcome home, Princess,” he says, spinning her into the middle of the ballroom. 

Whenever anyone else calls her Princess, it usually sounds either sarcastic or condescending. Every once in a while, it’s a simple mistake — they don’t know the correct way to address a princess. But the way Harry says it is special — soft and slow and sweet.

“You’re back,” she says, and then her face flushes as she realizes her mistake. For just a second, she’d forgotten that he’s _been_ back for several months; just a few weeks after he graduated from Cambridge, his father, the former Viscount Bingham, died unexpectedly. “Excuse me,” she corrects herself, “I mean — well, I’m very sorry for your loss, Harry.”

“It is what it is,” he says slowly, his steps slowing just for a moment before realigning with the music. “My mother and Jane and I — well, it sounds dumb, but we’ve survived it, I suppose. Right?”

Allie glances around. She had thought that she’d seen Harry’s sister Jane’s long, dark hair from the corner of her eye earlier tonight. “It must’ve been hard.”

“You’ve been through worse.”

She meets his eyes steadily. She can’t tell if she’s imagining that his eyes are brighter than they were before. “I suppose there’s no use of comparisons,” she says softly. “And, well, I’ve had longer to get used to it.”

His hand tightens on her back. “Anyway. I see you still keep up on all the goings-on around here, despite how long you’ve been gone.”

She hopes he doesn’t notice that she turns even redder — she actually does her best _not_ to keep up on all the gossip in Westham. But any word about Harry has always stuck in her mind like glue.

She’s been based in Scotland ever since she was twelve — first at Fettes with Sam, and then she went to St. Andrew’s for college. Allie knows that she easily could’ve sought Harry out ever since she saw him at that college party four years ago, but she didn’t. She thought about it in passing sometimes, but she never acted on it. “Did you graduate or did Cambridge kick you out?” she asks lightly, fully knowing the answer. 

“I could ask you the same thing about St. Andrew’s,” he says, smirking.

“Well, I graduated a thousand years ago.”

“ _Three_ isn’t a thousand, Princess.”

“Are you even twenty-three yet?” she asks.

“Yes,” he says too quickly, looking embarrassed.

“How long ago?”

“Almost a month.”

She grins. “Oh yeah, end of August, right? Happy birthday.”

He just rolls his eyes, but he moves a little closer to her. She isn’t sure if she’s dancing this close to him because it’s been too long since her last formal ballroom experience, or just because she can’t help it. She isn’t even sure which of them moved this much — and she doesn’t really care. After all, this has always seemed to happen to them. Maybe it’s just inevitable at this point.

“How many years has it been since we were in this ballroom together?” he asks her softly. “Surely it wasn’t—”

She feels her face heat up, and even his looks a little pink. “It was before you went to college,” she corrects him, knowing full well the other time he’s thinking of.

He nods slowly. “You sure have left Westham in the dust.” He pauses for a moment or two and then asks, “How long will you be around, Princess?”

“Honestly, I have no idea. However long Parliament holds me, I suppose.”

“Whatever will you do without your Highlanders for that long?” he asks softly, his own face completely red.

“I guess I’m not the only one keeping up to date on gossip.”

He can’t even look at her after that, looking down at his feet as though dancing — especially dancing with _her_ — isn’t second-nature by now. “That didn’t answer my question.”

Her throat feels dry all of a sudden, and she clears it. “I’ll survive,” she says simply, because she can’t tell him the truth. She barely even knows what the truth is, beyond the undeniable fact that she can’t think about any of those aforementioned Highlanders when Harry Bingham is in front of her.

“Well, then.” He looks up at her, a dark curl falling in front of his eyes. “I look forward to it.”

She bites her lip. “Are you here to stay?”

“I suppose… I _am_ a viscount now.”

Her eyes widen. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t think about that.”

He shakes his head. “It’s neither here nor there.”

She lifts her hand from the correct place on his shoulder and strokes the side of his neck. He leans into her touch, and she misses a step. He looks down at their feet and then back up at her, one eyebrow lifting. “Out of practice, Princess?” he teases.

She doesn’t move her hand. Harry’s own hand on her back pulls her a little closer, and then they’re flush against each other. “Harry,” she breathes. That same feeling comes over her that’s always been there, ever since they were teenagers. Everything about him — his face, his dark curls, his touch, even his _smell_. She can’t think of another word for him but intoxicating.

There’s a hand on Harry’s shoulder then, suddenly invading their space. They split apart, their bodies pulling apart like they’re teenagers getting busted for staying out too late, instead of the nearly-functional adults they are. Allie looks and sees Sam standing there, staring at her very steadily. There’s just cool blankness on his face, and it’s more damning than anything he could’ve signed to her.

Harry takes a step away from her and bows deeply, so deeply she can’t help but smile by the time he meets her eyes again. He gives her that little grin again as he says, “Have a good night, Princess.”

“You too, Harry.”

She watches the back of his head as he walks away, and before he gets swallowed up by the crowd, he turns around once to look back at her. Now it’s her turn to grin, and then he’s gone.

“Seriously?” Sam signs. He grabs her arm and lightly tugs her off the dance floor. Elle is next to her instantaneously. Once they make it to an area that’s at least a little more private, Sam continues, “I just don’t get why you’re like _this_ with him when sex with him was so horrible.”

She blushes. “It wasn’t _horrible._ And, I mean, it’s been, like, _eight years_.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “You could have any guy in this country, you know. Honestly, he isn’t even that hot.”

She looks at him, her eyes widening. “There’s no need to spread blatant _lies_ , now, Lord Samuel.”

“Frankly, every one of those Scottish dudes was hotter.”

She just shakes her head, looking at Harry across the room. “Not even a little.” 

He makes a noise in his throat that sounds like a dying animal and stares up at the heavens. “Straight people,” he mutters. 

* * *

“The Parliament of Westham is in session. Prime Minister Visser presiding.”

Grizz inclines his head to the speaker solemnly. Allie is sitting very still and straight in a navy pantsuit, directly next to Grizz’s raised seat. On her other side is her father. James, however, is the picture of indolence, practically radiating the desire to go back to sleep.

In front of them, in three raised rows of stands, are the eighteen members of Parliament, most of whom are aristocrats, and all of whom are men. They range from as young as Campbell to the very elderly Duke of Beaumont, who seems to command some sort of implicit seniority. The way they sit, looking down from the stands like that, makes her fleetingly feel like a college professor. But then she sees the cold looks on their faces, and it weighs upon her more like a grand jury.

She recognizes every face in front of her — she has known nearly all of them since she was born. And yet none of them looks at her with an emotion slightly more positive than distaste. She gives a sidelong glance at Grizz, who inclines his head at her just the slightest amount. She can’t help but feel the tiniest bit better just from that alone.

“Your Royal Highness, you have the floor,” Grizz says to James.

James nods and stands. “As you see, Her Royal Highness Princess Allie is back,” he says, very succinctly. “She will be taking her rightful place as Queen as soon as her coronation can be arranged. Tomorrow at the latest.”

And, just like that, he’s done talking. He sits back down with a sigh, giving a smile to Allie that she can only assume is intended to be comforting. It’s anything but, however. She wonders if he really can’t see how _angry_ those faces are as they turn to her. Eighteen angry men, just staring at her. It occurs to her very suddenly that this is exactly where Cassandra sat, several times a week like clockwork, starting from the day she turned eighteen. She was seven years younger than Allie is now. And yet she never complained even for a second about the thing that makes Allie want to flee straight back to Scotland.

One of the old men — the only one whose name Allie doesn’t know — asks, “And where exactly have you been, Your Royal Highness?”

James leans over and whispers just for her, “Sir Planche.”

“Traveling,” she says, a little too sharply. It’s such an obvious question that she knows she should have been well prepared for it. But maybe that belief in aristocracy seeped into her like she hadn’t realized. She had thought just her existence was enough.

“Her Majesty Queen Cassandra has been dead for eight months,” Sir Planche says. “To say that during that period we have faced a crisis because of your absence would be an understatement, Your Royal Highness.”

“I’m here now,” she says slowly, forcing her tone to be earnest instead of angry.

The Duke of Beaumont clears his throat, and everyone looks towards him. “I don’t think you could be surprised that your assurances are not particularly comforting, Your Royal Highness,” he says.

“There is the fact,” Sir Planche continues, “that you aren’t even _eligible_ to be Queen.”

Allie frowns and looks at James. “Aren’t I?” she asks, trying and failing to keep her tone from being combative.

“We don’t allow unmarried women to rule this country, Allie,” Campbell says with a grin.

It burns over her, coming from him. At first it just stings like they’re warring cousins again, but then she realizes there’s an audience and she can’t bite back and this is _real_ — and suddenly she’s standing from the pain of it all. She wishes she could fight, but she just paces a few feet and then says, in as controlled a voice as possible, “That law has never been enforced. Cassandra didn’t get married for almost a year after she was married. And my mother was even longer. And — I mean — this is the twenty-first century, for God’s sake.”

“Cassandra wasn’t a flight risk,” Campbell says.

Allie glares at him. “You can’t do this.”

“Of course, we have recently been discussing the alternate line of succession,” Campbell says, standing up abruptly. All eyes are on him, and now he’s barely paying attention to Allie. He turns towards the others. “If Princess Allie has no interest in complying with our marriage law, perhaps we can expedite this option.”

It’s then that Allie knows she’s just meant to be Campbell’s collateral damage. She looks at James, but he seems to be avoiding her gaze. Instead, he’s just looking at Parliament with a too-neutral expression on his face. For a second, she almost sinks back into her chair, but then walks a few steps closer to where Campbell is standing in the first row of seats. She’s below him, but she doesn’t care. “Enlighten me, cousin. What is this _alternate_ line?”

“You aren’t the only one in line, Allie.”

“Maybe you’re just mad that you _aren’t_ ,” she hisses at him. His pleasant smile almost falters for a moment. “So tell me,” Allie says, louder this time. “Who do you want to replace me with? Lynmere, probably, right?” She gestures vaguely up at the stands, where she knows he’s sitting.

“Does it matter?” Campbell asks. Now he looks genuinely amused. She glares up at him, wishing they _were_ still children so she could stamp her foot and shout at him. It didn’t often work even back then, but at least it _felt_ like it might. Now she can see all her possible courses of action, and every single one is futile. 

Then comes Grizz’s voice: “Viscount Bingham.”

Allie whips around to Grizz, her mouth falling open. Her eyes are wide. Her mind, her body — she doesn’t know how to reconcile it. When she hears his name, all she can think is dancing with him, laughing with him, flirting with him. For years and years and years, like he’s muscle memory. That’s what he’s always been to her — an infrequent but unfailingly happy light. 

All she can do is stand there and waver from the shock of it.

“Viscount Bingham’s mother — Karen Winwood Bingham — is the _elder_ sister of Daniel Winwood III, the Duke of Lynmere,” Grizz explains. “They are the grandchildren of Queen Eustacie’s second child, the first Daniel Winwood. It is widely assumed that Lady Bingham would cede her position to Viscount Bingham, in the event of this… becoming relevant.” He breaks their eye contact at those last two words, and Allie feels like she might throw up.

“Does… does Harry even know about this?” Allie says, tone biting by the end, looking back at Campbell.

“Who wouldn’t want to be King?” he asks with a smile. He looks radiantly happy now, and she knows that whatever plan he’s come up with has worked out perfectly for him. As always.

“Fine,” Allie says, taking a step back. She wishes she could pace the length of this room, over and over again, as though the repetition might help. “ _Fine_. How long do I have to get married?”

“A year,” Grizz says immediately, but she knows he doesn’t have the authority to set that time limit.

“Six months,” Lynmere says with a generous wave of his hand.

“Two weeks,” Campbell says, smirking down at her.

“One month,” Beaumont says. He stands up, and everyone looks at him. Allie’s instincts had been right — everything around her tells her that his words do carry the most weight. “You have thirty days to get married, You Royal Highness. If you cannot complete that requirement, you will lose your place in the line of succession.”

“Allie,” James says, grabbing her shoulder and pulling her back a few feet, away from the rest of Parliament and back towards Grizz. She hadn’t even realized he had moved from his seat. But he’s spinning her around to look at him. “Breathe,” he says, and she does so. “You don’t have to do this.” He just whispers it, his eyes flickering around the stands at the members of Parliament. She knows he means it. He’s an indulgent and happy-go-lucky man who happened to be an aristocrat and happened to fall in love with a Crown Princess. And suddenly he was entrenched in the royal family, and even now — after death and destruction and agreeing to be regent at two different times, it still never seemed to be too much for him to bounce back from.

She wonders if she got even a fraction of that resilience.

She looks over at Grizz, who’s just sitting there with his arms folded across his chest. She knows that he doesn’t feel the same way — there’s disapproval radiating off of his body. _Grizz_ would never shirk his responsibilities. He’s _better_ than her and James. He’s a good person, like Cassandra.

_Cassandra_.

“Cassandra would’ve wanted me to,” Allie says slowly.

“But what about you?” James asks, voice still too low to carry. “You’ve spent you whole life running from this.”

And she has. She knows rationally death would’ve happened to her whether or not her family was royal, but she still feels like this country and this crown have stolen two of the people most important to her. Maybe she’s just signing herself up for an early death, too. Maybe there’s a curse.

And yet Cassandra would want it. Her mother would want it.

Somehow, it really is as simple as that.

“No,” Allie says. “We’re going to do this.” She doesn’t know that she’s resolved until she is. She looks at Grizz, and he nods at her with a small smile on his face. She shakes her head and her hair falls behind her back. She tilts her head upward. “Let’s arrange a fucking marriage.”

James laughs.

Louder, turning back to Parliament, Allie says primly, “I will accept your terms.”

She looks right at Campbell, and he just grins. She smiles back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my best friend and beta, Hannah <3
> 
> Campbell and Sam theoretically would be in the line of succession (second and third in line, right after Allie), but their father was cut out of the line for reasons that will eventually be explained. 
> 
> Chapter title from Cut Me Off from Selena Gomez’s Rare (all chapter titles will be pulled from Rare).
> 
> Follow me on tumblr @hallie-society and maybe I'll actually start being active there!
> 
> Around six chapters of this fic are written but still need to be betaed, so I'm hopeful for fairly regular updates. The chapter count is definitely an estimate but shouldn't be too far off.


	2. now I'm breathing ashes and dust

“Sources close to Parliament say that Princess Allie has a limited time to arrange a marriage for herself in order to be eligible to ascend the throne,” the reporter on TV says. “The exact time specified appears to be around a month, and the Princess will not be taking the regent King James’s place until she is married.” Allie scoffs, looking at the reporter’s face. She’s small with a dark bob, the name _Lexie Pemberton_ on the chyron below her face. She looks absolutely gleeful, though her voice is carefully controlled. “This law has often been disregarded for previous queens, but given the Princess’s penchant for travel and other… _recreational_ activities, the law is quite rightfully being enforced now.”

“She makes it sound like I’m doing hard drugs or something,” Allie signs to Sam, and then promptly buries her face into her comforter.

The voice continues, “I think we’re all questioning whether or not Princess Allie should even be _allowed_ to keep her place in line regardless—”

Then the TV turns off. Allie just groans dramatically, looking up with the expectation of seeing Sam, but instead it’s Bean. She’s standing next to Sam’s chair, the TV remote in her hand. “Honestly,” Bean says, “I’ve known you a lot longer than she has, and I think you’ll make a great queen.”

Allie scrambles off her bed and launches herself across the room and straight into Bean’s arms. They rock back and forth as they hug tightly. “Why are you here?” Allie nearly squeals.

Bean pulls back from the hug and starts signing while she talks, “To find you the perfect husband. _Duh_. I got a call from the King himself.”

Bean is the Princess of Akkad. Much like Allie _used_ to be, Bean is the second child, so she’ll never have to rule. They went to college at St. Andrew’s together, with single dorm rooms right next to each other and a Jack-and-Jill bathroom between them, complete with bulletproof glass. Sam was around often enough that Bean became a good friend to him, too.

Allie can’t even remember the last time she’s smiled like this, not knowing how much she needed to be fortified until just the sight of Bean. “I’m glad you’re here,” Allie says, and she means it. 

“So. When’s this whole dating-app-for-arranged-marriages thing I’ve been invited to?” She looks genuinely excited.

Allie groans again. “Unfortunately, I have quite a disgusting errand to run first.” She’s almost glad for it, if only to get her mind off her _arranged marriage._ It’s still so surreal that she can ignore it — but she knows that will surely come to an end soon. 

Bean looks her up and down, eyebrows raising. “Maybe you should change out of your pajamas first?”

* * *

“I can’t believe Parliament invited Harry to stay at the Palace,” Allie says an hour later, tugging her blonde curls into place in the mirror. She can see James out of her peripheral vision, straightening his burgundy tie. She’s wearing a hot pink blazer over black slacks and a black shirt. Helena always tries to force her into skirts, but she knows by now that Allie will always opt for pants except for when wildly inappropriate. The hot pink, too, was a choice that made Helena roll her eyes.

“Parliament didn’t,” he says casually, checking his phone briefly, “I did.”

Allie whips around to look at him, eyes wide with shock. Before she has the chance to do more than just sputter incoherently a couple times, the Palace doors open and one of the guards announces, “Lord Harry Bingham, Viscount of Bingham.”

And in he walks, looking just as heart-stoppingly beautiful as always. It’s new — not the feeling itself, but the bitter aftertaste of it. She examines him, keeping her face clinically neutral. He’s wearing a navy suit with icy blue pinstripes, looking every bit as neat and polished as always. A couple of his curls are in careful disarray, falling in front of his face in exactly the way Allie likes. She might be feeling dread in the pit of her stomach, but he walks in as though he’s envisioned himself here — so often that it might as well already be his. Maybe, to him, this is all just a waiting game.

Maybe her failure is just a forgone conclusion. 

“Welcome, Harry,” James says, striding forward to shake his hand.

Harry’s back inclines slightly. “Thank you for your kind invitation, Your Royal Highness.”

James just nods at him and then looks back at Allie, his eyebrows raising. When she doesn’t move, he tilts his head just the slightest bit towards Harry. She certainly doesn’t spend much time in Westham, but she generally isn’t quite so delayed in following protocol. Finally, she walks forward and extends her hand to Harry. She doesn’t have a plan, but the way every cell of her body is screaming in protest tells her that she has to do _something_.

“Princess,” he says, the way he always does, but with that special smile mercifully absent from his face — she doesn’t think she can handle it. And then he’s leaning down to her hand, and she realizes he’s going to kiss it instead of shaking it. Before he can — and before she realizes what she’s doing — she twists her hand around and grabs his wrist.

“We need to talk,” she says unceremoniously, yanking him out of the foyer and down the hallway. She opens the first door that she’s certain she remembers being a meeting room, and there it is — a plain, boring table with a couple of chairs. She doesn’t want anything around that reminds her of comfort. When she finally looks back at Harry, he doesn’t look any happier than she does.

“What’s this about?” he asks, frowning. She’s glad to see that polished look completely gone from him.

“Seriously?” She gestures wildly at him. For a second, she considers being calm and rational. _Fuck that_ , her brain supplies immediately. Instead, she exclaims, “What the _fuck_ are you _doing?_ ”

He sits down on the table with a sigh. For a moment, the fingers of his right hand drum out his impatience, and then he’s back to that old nervous habit of spinning his signet ring around and around his little finger. “I’m next in line,” he finally says, voice quiet as he looks up at her.

“That’s it?” she asks with a snort. When he just shrugs, she barrels on, “Harry, you’re really sitting there saying… that you _want_ to do all this? Sitting in front of Parliament getting slaughtered, endless meetings, every move followed and reported and analyzed? I mean, you could just sit at home and be a viscount and do _nothing_ and live on all the money from your dad. But instead you want… _this_? All just, like, to spite me? Or do you want to be called King Harry _that_ bad?”

He stares at her, just for a minute, and then he looks back at his lap. She knows he’s always been weak. She’s standing in front of him, arms crossed over her chest. She didn’t realize quite how furious she was at _him_ until now. She knew she was furious, but most of it had felt directed towards Parliament. Now, though — she can barely even stand to near him. If someone had asked her yesterday to make a list of people who are on her side and not on her side, she doesn’t think she would’ve even thought to put Harry anywhere at all. But, subconsciously, she knows now that she must have always considered him _hers_ — there’s no other explanation for the feeling of betrayal that crashes through her and almost makes her feel ill.

“Well?” she finally snaps.

“It’s… complicated,” he sighs. “But it’s not _personal_. I mean — what about _you_? You’re going to pretend like you want this? After that little speech of yours? Plus — you haven’t even _lived_ here, Allie.”

She lets out a cutting laugh, and he flinches. “ _Fuck_ , Harry, so this is because you went to high school here and I didn’t? Don’t make shit up. Like — we _know_ each other.”

He hops off the table. “I don’t really think we do.”

She rolls her eyes. “Whatever, Harry.”

“It isn’t _my_ fault you have to get married, okay? I didn’t make the fucking law. Sorry for being _next in line_. Jesus Christ.” He runs his hand through his hair, walking a couple feet away from her, closer and closer to the door. Like he might just bolt out.

“You could say _no_ ,” she says loudly, not far from shouting.

He spins back around to face her. “Say _no_? What — just because we had sex one time, like a thousand years ago? Come on — I’m not structuring my life around _you_. I’m not giving up my place in the fucking _line of succession_. I don’t owe you shit.”

Allie’s mouth falls open. He starts to turn towards the door again, but this time she grabs his arm. He stops and looks at her reluctantly. She just stares at him for a minute, trying to reconcile all of this in her brain. She’s known him since they were born, basically. She grew up with him, had crushes on him, danced with him when dancing was still mostly stepping on toes and worrying about the transfer of cooties. And then — when they were older — pulling him out of the ballroom, kissing him. Back when sex was still new and different and invigorating and _exciting_ the way it isn’t anymore. The sight of him above her had turned her into something _new_. Something _better_.

And now here he is — waging war on her.

“So this is what you want,” she says flatly.

“Yeah.” He shrugs as he says it, but that’s enough of an admission for her.

“‘Yeah’?” she repeats, bitingly sarcastic. Her hand tightens on his arm. “If you’re trying to be king, at least learn how to not sound like a fucking moron.”

“Come on, Princess.” He rolls his eyes, like this is all just a silly little joke.

“No,” she says. “No.” She knows she sounds hysterical, but she doesn’t care. She feels just an inch away from bursting into tears. She lets go of his arm like his skin is burning her. “You don’t get to call me that anymore — not when you’re trying to take it away from me.”

“ _Allie_ —”

She can hear something in his voice that wasn’t there before, something warm, but she doesn’t care anymore. “Go,” she snaps.

“But—”

So she just shoves around him and storms out first. She starts to turn back to the entryway, to dutifully go back to where James is probably still waiting, but instead she spins around to go back to her room. At some point, she’ll have to strategize next steps and relay this conversation with Harry to any number of people. But, right now, all she wants to do is scream.

* * *

“Maybe I should just kill him,” Allie says. She’s splayed out on the couch, her legs crossed over top of it, her head hanging off the edge of the seat cushion. Bean is curled up next to her, and Sam is sitting on the other end. Helena and Elle are talking in the back of the room, fiddling around on Helena’s laptop.

They’re in the theater room, and maybe if Allie weren’t so annoyed, she’d be thinking about all the Disney movies she and Cassandra watched, curled up on this very couch. Back then, Allie didn’t know what it was like to be a normal kid. Maybe she never found out, not really, but she had felt _almost_ normal at Fettes.

“I’ll help,” Sam signs, looking genuinely eager.

“I think it would just go to the next in line,” Bean says, big eyes looking between them.

Allie groans. “I mean, _Jane_ would be better than Harry.”

“Since when are _you_ anti-Harry?” Sam asks.

She leans up, propping herself up on her elbows. Then she realizes she can’t sign like that, and gracelessly detangles herself from the couch, accidentally sliding off it in the process. She sits up, cross-legged, flipping her blonde curls back behind her back. “Since he decided to _guillotine_ me, Sam,” she says, her signing caught up on the word guillotine, which she doesn’t know the sign for — and can’t spell.

He’s still laughing when the door opens.

“You’re late,” Allie says, looking towards the door with a petulant frown. Her father just shrugs as he walks in with his bodyguard, Luke, and Grizz close behind him. James and Luke make a beeline back to Helena and Elle, while Grizz hovers near the door. Allie grins at him, gesturing him over to take the spot on the couch she’d occupied up until a minute ago. Grizz sits down, glancing around the room contemplatively. Allie knows this must surely be his first time in this room — they’re far from the area of the Palace that Parliament occupies.

“Lord Eliot, Your Royal Highness…es,” Grizz says, finishing awkwardly.

Bean starts giggling, and Sam — still barely recovered — laughs again, too. Bean and Grizz make some casual small talk, which nearly immediately veers off into foreign relations, probably because Grizz seems too overwhelmed to discuss anything else. Allie notices with some interest that Grizz signs a few words here and there. She almost asks about it, but then the projector lights up the screen, the first slide of the PowerPoint already up.

Allie scrambles up back onto the couch between Bean and Grizz, the couch large but a bit too small for all four of them. They’re all silent for a moment at the strangeness of it — like some sort of weird, alternate version of online dating. There’s a photo with a caption written next to it, which Helena also reads aloud: “Daniel Winwood III, Duke of Lynmere. Age: 43. Hobbies: Golf, Travel.”

“Jesus Christ,” Allie says, when she’s recovered, twisting all the way around on the jam-packed couch to glare at her father. “How many times do I need to tell you guys I’m not marrying my second cousin?”

James rolls his eyes, but he detaches himself from their group at the back and walks back to the front, sitting on an armchair next to their couch. “He’s too old, anyway.”

“He’s _very_ eligible,” Helena says from the back. She’s the head of security, but her duties — officially and otherwise — encompass a lot more than that. She’s the unofficial keeper of their lives, basically. From what Allie has heard, she’s had this slideshow prepared for ages. Which makes Allie feel a bit gross in a way she’s shoving away.

“ _Next_ ,” Allie says.

“Is this literally… how you’re supposed to pick a husband?” Grizz whispers, eyes wide.

Allie nods. “There’s no dating app for arranging a marriage with a fellow aristocrat,” she says dryly. “As much as Bean likes to pretend there is.” He smiles at her, but she can tell from the look on his face that he finds this strange and incomprehensible.

“Richard Winthrop,” Helena reads as she flips the slide, “he’s an English Baron. Age: 56. Hobbies: Sailing—”

“Too _old_ ,” Allie nearly shrieks. Bean makes a fake retching noise next to her.

“Harry Bingham, first son of the Viscount of Bingham,” Helena reads, then breaks off. “Well — that’s… wrong.”

“Yeah, and he isn’t 22 anymore, either. How long ago did you _make_ this?” Allie asks. But she can’t help but stare at that photo of him — he’s still so beautiful that it feels like a personal attack on her. Underneath, it reads, _Hobbies: Polo, Racing, Cards_. “Honestly, he sounds insufferable.” She feels herself stinging all over again from that conversation earlier, like she’s bleeding all over again after picking at a scab.

“What?” Sam asks, leaning forward in his seat. “No complaining about _third_ cousins?”

Allie just sticks her tongue out at him, feeling herself flush.

“Prince Carl Philip of Sweden,” Helena says next, and then breaks off as they all just stare at his picture.

“Sure,” Allie breathes, leaning forward. “I’ll take him.”

“He’s not eligible,” Elle says. “For a _lot_ of reasons—”

“Isn’t he _married_?” Grizz asks.

“Then why,” James asks Helena incredulously, “is he included in these photos?”

“I just like to look at him,” Helena sighs, and Bean and Allie nod in agreement.

Then the slides click in rapid succession. Even James seems frustrated now, “Too old — too young — gay — not an _aristocrat_ ,” he says with each new slide. “None of this is right.” He stands up, pacing in front of them. “Allie needs someone titled, someone kind and noble but not flashy—”

“Someone like _him_?” Bean asks as Helena flips to the next slide.

James turns around and looks as Helena reads, “William LeClair, English Duke of Kenilworth. Age: 28. Hobbies: Cooking, photography.”

“Yes,” James says, “someone _just_ like him.”

Allie stares at him — his light brown skin, his pointed face, his tight dark curls. There’s a small smile on his face that doesn’t look anything but friendly. “He looks… nice,” she says. It isn’t much to go off of, but there’s a knife hanging over her head and her blood is still _boiling_ from Harry Bingham. And Will _does_ look _nice_ — so, the opposite of Harry. Just looking at him makes her feel almost calm, for what feels like the first time in days. She leans back in her seat.

“I think we found him, Al,” James says, sounding pleased.

“I guess so.” She can’t help but let out a sigh.

“Just like that?” Grizz murmurs to her. His eyes are wide, and she isn’t sure whether or not she’s imagining that he’s trying to give her permission not to go through with this.

And she thinks about it for a second — it would be so easy to stand up and say no. She could be out of this room in a matter of seconds, out of the Palace in an hour, out of the country in two. She could go back to her old nomadic lifestyle, chasing nothing but _escape_ for the rest of her life. Maybe she’d visit occasionally, and see Harry ruling on her throne and think _maybe_.

Because this was supposed to be Cassandra’s life. When Allie could run away and let her father take over, that hadn’t felt like a betrayal. But the idea of someone barely related taking over that throne — that’s different. For the first time, her stomach twists and she knows, unmistakably, that she _cares_.

“Just like that,” Allie says firmly to Grizz, shrugging at him. She doesn’t feel like pretending that it’s possible to pick out her soulmate from a collection of photographs compiled by the Palace’s head of security. Maybe Grizz, at least, can understand that this is what it is.

Cassandra was stolen from her, but Cassandra’s crown won’t be.

* * *

This is all Campbell’s fault.

That’s all Harry can think — as he looks around his room. It’s weird, being here, in this room of the Palace obviously intended for bachelors. The pool table, the well-stocked bar, the massive TV. It isn’t even drastically different from his room at home, but there’s something about knowing other men have been here — in and out and in and out for generations. Suddenly he thinks of what this room would look like under a blacklight and feels queasy.

He loops back through the suite back to the bed, flopping down on the light grey quilt. This room just _screams_ Harry Bingham. He’s an aristocrat, yet still trash. Predictable. Unsophisticated. No different than any other man who could’ve walked in here.

It’s a minor point in the whole situation, but he can’t help but wonder what room he might’ve been given a week ago. Would it really have been this one? Or maybe a room designated for relatives or friends or even just fellow aristocrats — respected ones, anyway. There are certainly several classifications he could’ve fit under before _strange bachelor_ , and yet here he is.

This is what he’s been relegated to.

There’s just the small little detail that he brought this upon himself. He had been expecting to be the bad guy — especially to Allie — but he hadn’t realized she would cry. He almost feels like he could scream, but instead he just buries his face in one of the pillows on the ugly bed, instantly drained to the point where he doesn’t know if he can muster the energy to even raid the mini bar. This would all be easier if he were more like Campbell — cool and calculating and always focused on the greater good.

Because, well, this really did all start with Campbell.

Campbell — besides being his third cousin — has always been his friend. At least, in the way that Harry considers friendship: people with whom he talks and parties and drinks regularly.

He thought he had friends at Cambridge — people who he talked to and partied with and drank with. Maybe he’s always thought that was enough. But now — none of his Cambridge friends contact him anymore beyond an occasional _like_ on Instagram. His friends become passing acquaintances at such an alarming rate that Harry’s beginning to think maybe he doesn’t know what friendship really is.

And now he’s seeing the same thing here. Everyone he talks to is an aristocrat, and that’s all they are. It’s something immutable that they all have in common, but that doesn’t stop it from feeling like the most tenuous connection. Now that he has a title, his social capital has skyrocketed — all because his father died. There’s something gross about how other people treat him — like they’re giving him an implicit congratulations because someone he loved died.

Campbell is one of them.

It happened a couple days ago.

* * *

_Harry was in the kitchen with his younger sister, Jane. She had just started her last year at Westham’s high school — the one Harry had gone to. Elite but not as elite as most of the people he’d gone to Cambridge with. Harry was baking, as he often did; it was a stress reliever, and one without any of the negative side effects of most of his other coping mechanisms — those had been getting him into some trouble lately. Jane, horrible in the kitchen, always likes to be around to reap the rewards. She was sitting across the kitchen island, a textbook open but ignored in front of her. She was leaned halfway across the counter, picking freshly washed raspberries one by one out of the bowl next to Harry._

_“Those are really for the top of the cake, you know,” Harry said to her, trying and failing not to grin._

_“Garnishes are overrated.” She gave him a wide grin._

_“It’s not a_ garnish _.”_

_She stuck her tongue out at him. He wondered for a second if he and Jane would look more alike if he ever seemed as happy as she did. Because, really, by all accounts they should look just alike. They have the same brown eyes and brown curls — albeit, her curls much longer. Even their heights aren’t far apart. But there’s something to her looks that’s nothing but approachable, while he knows he comes across as dull and lifeless most of the time. Jane is fun and funny and normal — extremely popular, usually with a gaggle of friends or a new boyfriend around._

_Even when their father died, she was the one who bounced back faster. She’s not even eighteen yet, but already stronger and more resilient than Harry thinks he’ll ever be. Maybe those genes just passed him by._

_When he’s honest with himself, he envies her._

_He’s all too aware of the fact that he’ll never be anything besides what’s been handed down to him, from generation to generation until, somehow, it all landed with someone probably not at all suited for it. He grew up in this house, but in the last couple months, it’s been an unwelcome reminder that he’s a viscount now. And that’s all he is. Something about it makes him want to drown._

_So he turned back to his baking, whisking vigorously. This is the one hobby that’s just_ his _._

_“Is the oven supposed to be, like, on fire?” Jane asked conversationally._

_He turned around just to make sure before telling her, “It’s steam — there’s a water bath in there.”_

_“Sure.”_

_He snorted. He could tell she had no idea what that meant. She went back to her textbook — chemistry, something advanced — and he carefully sifted cocoa powder into his other ingredients._

_Then the doorbell rang. Both he and Jane looked up absently. She raised her eyebrows at Harry. “Who the fuck is that?” she asked. “Not one of your douchebag friends, I hope.” But neither of them moved, knowing one of the servants would get it. Sure enough, just a minute later, Campbell walked into the room. There was a wide grin on his face._

_Jane turned back to Harry, the annoyed look on her face a secret just between her and her brother. Jane hates Campbell. “Welcome to Bingham,” she said, her voice painfully dry, and Harry tried not to crack a smile._

_“How are you, Jane?” Campbell asked, voice oddly deferential._

_She shoved three raspberries into her mouth and then answered, mouth full, “Super.”_

_“What are we making, Harry?”_

_Harry looked up to see him sit down at the island, leaving a stool between himself and Jane. “Flourless chocolate cake,” Harry said. He poured the batter into the pan, sliding the bowl and spatula across the table to Jane when he was done. She picked up the spatula happily, sticking it into her mouth as she flipped the page of her textbook._

_“Could we talk privately?” Campbell asked, already starting to get up as though Harry’s acquiescence is a foregone conclusion._

_Before Harry could even start to come up with a response, Jane answered, “Sorry, it’s our brother-sister bonding day. Otherwise, like, I’d normally have friends here.”_

_“You’re studying,” Campbell said dryly, a wide smile on his face. “And he’s baking.”_

_“We’re multi-taskers,” she shot back. She banged the wooden handle of the spatula onto the counter like it was a gavel._

_“I’m sure no one is in that big office of yours, Harry.” Campbell held up a bottle of whiskey Harry hadn’t noticed him carrying, and Harry doesn’t even recognize the expensive-looking bottle._

_He thought of that dark room he hates going into — that huge desk that made the distance between himself and his father feel absolutely insurmountable, no matter well they got along otherwise. Those rows and rows of books that weren’t his, that he would never read — could never_ stand _to read. Just another thing his ancestors did better than him._

_“You can say anything you want in front of Jane, Campbell,” he said, shrugging._

_Jane shifted in her chair, like she was so happy that just sitting couldn’t quite contain it. She turned a radiant grin to Campbell. “So what could the glorious Duke of Thane want?”_

_Harry turned to put the cake in the oven, the blast of steam feeling like the briefest sauna. He was looking down to set the timer when Campbell said, “Do you ever think about how you’re second in line now?”_

_“Um, well,” Harry said absently, “Uncle Daniel—”_

_“Mom is older than Uncle Daniel,” Jane interrupted._

_“Oh, yeah. That’s right.” It was odd, the way that stuck in his brain — with Daniel being a duke and Harry only being a viscount, there was something incomprehensible about Daniel not being ahead of him in the line of succession. But even though only men could inherit_ other _titles — like Daniel’s duchy — there’s still absolute primogeniture to the throne. “Well, then, our mother—”_

_“She’d cede it to you,” Campbell interrupted this time._

_Jane looked at Campbell, eyebrows raised._

_Harry felt his eyes narrowing as he shrugged. “I guess — but it’s not like that would ever be relevant.” He didn’t know why Campbell was bringing this up — why it mattered to him. Sure, Harry’s in line — they’re all vaguely in line. They’re all aristocrats, and the country hasn’t been around nearly enough centuries to have aristocrats who aren’t in line. Unless you’re Campbell himself, of course. Campbell, whose father committed one of the only acts that can get someone ousted from the line of succession in Westham: marrying a commoner. It’s an archaic law, and Campbell and Sam are collateral damage._

_“Yeah,” Campbell said dismissively. “It’s a weird time, though. Have you seen all this shit Allie’s been up to?”_

_Timer finally set properly, Harry slid two glasses across the counter to Campbell. Harry knew he could sit down, too, but something about being on the other side of the kitchen seemed important. It wasn’t higher ground, necessarily, but at least it was_ different _ground. “It’s not as though I keep up on her,” he said._

_Jane snorted, then immediately covered her mouth with her hand. Campbell grinned, too, sliding one of the now-filled glasses back to Harry. Harry felt himself flush, wishing he could glare at his sister without Campbell seeing. “He says the tabloids are the maids’,” she said conspiratorially to Campbell. Harry knew that, to her, it was nothing but a joke — too funny not to share, even with Campbell. “She was last seen in the south of France with this dude with, like, an eight-pack.”_

_“Does it piss you off?” Campbell asked, with that same smile he always had — like the whole world was a joke that only he was smart enough to get._

_“No, of course not,” Harry said, too quickly. Because, honestly, it_ did _piss him off. He had no idea why. He’s dated girls and slept with girls — a lot of them. But Allie is different. He doesn’t know why or how, but for some reason, the echoes of his first crush seem to be following him forever._

_Campbell was smirking. Harry, frustrated, turned to the fridge to get the heavy cream to start making the whipped cream. The cold air did nothing to stop his face from feeling on fire._

_“It’s something we’ve been talking about in Parliament a lot,” Campbell said, a little louder, but with a strange, almost rehearsed edge to his voice that hadn’t been there before. “Of course we all want to like Allie. But, well, she isn’t_ Cassandra _. Allie has barely ever lived here, right?”_

_“I guess,” Harry said, but he couldn’t remember Campbell ever saying anything positive about Cassandra the way his tone implied._

_“Honestly, she probably just feels trapped by all this. I don’t know, what do you think — doesn’t it sort of seem cruel to force it on her when she ran away for so long?”_

_Harry set the cream on the counter, looking up at Campbell with raised eyebrows. He glanced at his sister, and her expression was a mirror of his own._

_“I’m sorry,” she said, “like what the actual fuck are you saying?”_

_“Well,” Campbell said slowly, the smile on his face belied by the annoyed tone of his voice, “you are second in line.”_

_“Not_ really _—” Harry started._

_Campbell interrupted, “You know about the marriage law, right?”_

_“Of course. But, like, Allie would never go for that, though.”_

_Campbell snorted. “Well, it’s not really something she can ‘go for’ or not. I just came from the Parliament session. She has a month to get married.”_

_“Are you fucking_ kidding _me?” Jane asked._

_Harry froze. “A_ month _?”_

_“Allie in an arranged marriage,” Jane said, hands on either side of her face in what seemed to be delighted horror._

_“But — but, I mean, it’s never been enforced like_ that _before.”_

_“She’s a flight risk,” Campbell said, laughing. “Obviously.”_

_“Jesus Christ — why are you telling me?” He looked down at the counter, seeing all of the three ingredients he needed sitting there, and yet for some reason he felt like he’d completely forgotten how to do it. Instead his right hand went to his signet ring on his opposite pinkie, and his twisted the band around, the light stretch and pull of his skin comforting like a security blanket. “I mean,” he said, not looking up, “you don’t want me to, like,_ marry her _?” Just the words made him flush completely red, not sure what answer he wanted to that._

_Campbell didn’t say anything for a long moment, until Harry finally met his eyes. Campbell seemed to stare straight through him. Harry didn’t know what he was seeing, because his own mind was so jumbled that Harry himself didn’t even understand. The idea of Allie_ married _. It was incomprehensible._

_“No,” Campbell finally said. “But someone has to be there when she fails.”_

_“Jesus Christ,” Jane said, reaching across the counter for Harry’s untouched glass of whiskey. Harry barely spared her more than a raised eyebrow. “What a dick move.”_

_“What—” Harry said, as always slower on the uptake than his sister, “—to swoop in, and, like, steal the fucking_ throne _?”_

_Campbell rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on. You and Jane — your great-great-grandmother was Queen Eustacie. Same as me, same as Allie. What’s it matter? You’re just as suited as her. I mean — better, honestly.”_

_“Campbell,” Harry said flatly. He meant to say more, but he couldn’t think of a single thing. He turned his panicked gaze to Jane._

_“I mean, like, you_ are _next in line, Harry,” Jane said, shrugging now._

_“You_ just _said it was a ‘dick move’.”_

_“Yeah, well, I mean — if she_ fails _and can’t be_ queen _, it isn’t your fault that you’re next in line. Like, it’s really_ Campbell _and Parliament that were the dicks in the first place, right?”_

_“I guess,” Harry said, frowning at her. She just shrugged, draining her glass._

_“Aren’t you making that whipped cream, like, way too early in this process?” she asked irrelevantly, as though she’s already written Campbell off._

_“Haven’t you ever thought about being king?” Campbell interjected._

_“I guess,” he said again, his tone resigned before he even knew he was._

_“I’ll do it if you won’t,” Jane said, pushing her empty glass in tiny increments across to Campbell until he refills it with a roll of his eyes._

_“I mean,” Harry said slowly to Campbell, “if you’re asking me to, like, acknowledge publicly I’m next in line, I guess — like Jane said — that’s, like, just factually accurate.”_

_Campbell leaned back in his seat, smiling a little. “Exactly. Nothing but the facts, right, Harry?”_

_“I guess.”_

_“The facts,” Jane said, raising her glass as though she’s making a toast. She takes a long drink. “Would that make me a princess, Campbell? Like, just technically?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my lovely betas, Piper (still_i_fall) & Hannah (emmadecody)!
> 
> Chapter title from People You Know by Selena Gomez.
> 
> If anyone wants a family tree, I can post one on tumblr. Please follow me @hallie-society!


	3. shiny till it wasn’t, feels good till it doesn’t

_The Palace had always seemed less formidable at Christmas. Being forced into a white, sparkling gown would normally have Allie making a snarky comment about looking like a child bride, but instead all it brought to her mind was a winter wonderland. Everything sparkled at Christmas._

_They were sitting in Cassandra’s suite of rooms, Gordie long-since sent himself down to the party, obviously wanting to give the sisters time to catch up. It was the first time Allie had been back since Cassandra’s wedding at the end of last summer. Cassandra seemed even happier in person than she had seemed on the phone. She and Gordie both radiated quiet, content happiness — Allie vacillated between being disgusted and delighted by it._

_Allie was a senior at Fettes, already accepted and ready to go to St. Andrew’s next fall, along with most of her friends. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d looked at the future with anything but dread. That Christmas, though, it was different. Westham was set — Cassandra was queen and married and would probably start shooting out babies in a couple of years._

_And that meant Allie had a clear conscience for fucking around in Scotland for another four years._

_Cassandra finally blessed her outfit and her hair and sent all the beauticians out of her rooms. Then she handed Allie a red gift box. When Allie opened it, there was a small gold star hanging on a delicate chain._

_“I thought about getting a snowflake instead, but you can wear a star all year around,” Cassandra said with a smile. “And, Allie, I really just hope that someday you can be this happy all the time.”_

_Allie reached up to take the heavy diamond necklace off from around her neck._

_“Don’t do that, Allie — oh my God, seriously — it’s not something_ fancy _, Allie.”_

_Allie ignored her, unceremoniously setting the diamonds onto the table next to her. Then she put on the little gold star necklace. It didn’t threaten to choke her like the other one had. There was just a breath of the cool, delicate metal against her clavicle. “I love it,” she said._

_Cassandra smiled, resigned. “Let’s go down.”_

* * *

**Monday**.

She sees Will for the first time, and she thinks he looks nice. Just like his photo projected on the screen. The pointed face, a slow, gentle smile, the ringlets of curls falling in artful disarray. Something about those curls looks almost familiar to her, and it makes her smile, despite the audience around her — her father and his mother and a dozen guards.

“Your Royal Highness,” he says, bowing over her hand.

“Your Grace,” she says, unable to keep an edge of hysteria from her voice, because it occurs to her that this is the man she chose to be her husband — from a photo and three sentences on a shittily-made PowerPoint. She’s twenty-five, but the idea of a _husband_ is far too adult. Far too real.

“Will,” he says.

She inclines her head, trying to keep her smile normal. To her surprise, it isn’t that hard around him. “Allie,” she tells him.

“Allie.”

* * *

_When she saw him, it felt like the first time. He was in a light grey suit and a Christmas-green tie, talking to Campbell with a pleasant smile on his face. Allie felt her heart stutter out his name before she fully realized it was him._

_Harry._

_She’d known him her whole life, but he had never looked like_ that _. He’d grown up — tall and beautiful and perfect. When he caught her eye, he grinned with unguarded happiness that made her feel giddy. Something in the happy movement of his head made one of his curls fall in front of his eyes. He excused himself from Campbell and came over to her, bowing playfully to her._

_“Princess,” he said softly._

_He was the only one who called her that. At least, it felt like he was. He was the only one who sounded like_ that _when he called her that, anyway. There was something charming and joyous in it, instead of it sounding like a bad omen._

_“Harry Bingham,” she said, a laugh in her voice. She reached out and brushed her hand along his tie, and he took a step towards her like it was a reflex. For a second, she couldn’t talk. It was silly — the British tabloids called her a slut even on their polite days, and yet in front of this one boy she had known all her life, she couldn’t string a sentence together._

_Then he smiled, slow and soft just like his voice, and it hit her somewhere she didn’t know._

_“How are you?” she asked — the only words she could pull from her head._

_“Good,” he said, laughing the word. It sounded so lame that she started laughing, too. Her hand fell to his arm, and she watched in stunned awe as his face turned red._

_“Do you want to dance?” she asked impulsively._

_“Of course, Princess.”_

* * *

**Tuesday**.

She and Will go walking along the coast, and it’s nice. Her dad and his mother are talking behind them, and it’s a pleasant background murmur. She learns more about him, and there’s nothing about it that’s fascinating — but the talk flows easily. There isn’t much that’s amusing, but there isn’t much awkwardness either.

Her pink scarf goes flying, and they chase after it. The laughter goes through them like the sea air — refreshing and free and different. Her foot finds a loose stone and she falls into him. Their laughter ripples throughout themselves and each other until they’re one person, even if only for a minute.

His arms wrapping around her don’t feel bad, and that’s a start.

* * *

_They danced together — once, twice, a dozen times. Allie lost count after a while. She allowed her father and Cassandra to pull her away and introduce her around. She willingly engaged in casual small talk, without even any of her usual trademark ‘bad attitude’. And then, again and again, she caught sight of that little smile in her peripheral vision, and she went to him every time._

_Their bodies already knew the rhythms of how to dance together. They’d grown up together, probably learned together in some distant past. They were taller and older and different in more ways than Allie could count, but they could dance together without a thought. They danced beautifully, even if pressed a little too close._

_She had only drunk one glass of champagne, but the sight of him was intoxicating. The night wore on, sparkling and enchanting — not tedious and tiring like these parties had always been before. And she felt drunker and drunker on every shot of Harry. After a while, she was giddy and laughing and so full of joy she thought she might explode. The touch of his hand on her waist felt electric._

_Until, finally, she couldn’t stand it anymore. The party was starting to thin, but not too thin — the perfect time to leave without being seen. She grabbed his wrist and pulled him out of the ballroom. No one knew the Palace like her, even after all this time, and in just a couple minutes, she stopped in a deserted hallway. Harry hadn’t said anything the entire time, and for just a second, Allie panicked. He was younger than her, and she wasn’t sure he was ready for this. She looked at him slowly, but once she finally met his steady brown eyes, he grinned._

_Then he was kissing her._

_She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. Her fingers threaded through his soft curls, and she could feel his hands on her waist — both of his hands now, and tight. She had kissed dozens of boys — had sex with more than a couple, too. But none of them had felt like this. Every one of her senses was overwhelmed by him. She felt absolutely on fire._

_But she knew she still needed more of him._

* * *

**Wednesday**.

She and Will play badminton and, it’s nice. Neither of them are very good, and that makes it fun. In their lives, there are a lot of things you have to be good at. And the things Allie is good at never seem to be the proper ones.

Sam, Bean, and even Grizz are sitting nearby, signing to each other. Allie catches words from the corner of her eye, but she tries to focus on Will. The days are slipping by, and she knows she has to focus on him. Time and freedom are the two luxuries she doesn’t have.

But when he isn’t around her, he slips out of her mind like it’s a sieve. 

_Maybe it’s just that I’ve never dated anyone nice before_ , she tells herself, trying to think like Cassandra. She hits the birdie and sends it soaring gracefully over to Will. He hits it back, giving her a quick smile when their eyes meet. He looks _right_ out here — the green of the grounds, his light brown skin, the bright white polo shirt with the Westhamian crest on it.

The next time she hits, she tries to do something too fancy, and it veers off to the side. He lunges for it, and this time he slips and falls, his hands going to his injured ankle. Laughing, she collapses next to him on the ground, starting to reach for his ankle, too, but she pauses. He reaches and entwines their fingers together, and it takes her a second too long to realize she should grin at him.

“I hope you survive,” she says lightly, looking at the corner of her eye as one of the guards runs for ice.

“Just to warn you, I fully intend to.” He smiles up at her.

And that’s when she knows.

He’s going to propose soon. She smiles back at him, suddenly feeling unsteady. She’s glad she’s already on the ground.

* * *

_She’d had sex before, but it hadn’t been like this._

_Harry in her bedroom — no boy had ever been in her bedroom before then. She had a feeling no other boy would have looked right, surrounded by the delicate pink_ everything _of her childhood room. But, somehow, he did. There had always been something that was just so indescribably_ right _about the two of them._

_Every article of clothing coming off was somehow wild and new and different. Maybe because she could barely stop kissing him — she wanted more of him, but the feeling of her lips on his was already so intoxicating that she could barely be distracted from it. It was sexy and funny and_ fun _. She hadn’t known it could be this fun. She felt like she could spend forever, suspended just like this — his lips on hers, her tongue against his, overheated but covered in goosebumps, her upper body arching off the bed just so that as much of them could be in contact as possible._

_Eventually everything came off. She reveled in it — Harry was the most beautiful boy she’d ever seen. She could barely stop touching him. She loved the feel of his pale skin under her hands. She wondered if people in love ever got lucky enough to feel this way forever — greedy and happy and exhilarated. She’d had better sex before, but there was still something different about this, something that felt oddly significant. Much more so than losing her virginity three years ago had. It was like Harry melted her and re-formed her into something new._

_He was just so beautiful she thought she might die from it._

* * *

**Thursday**.

She and Will go walking through the gardens, and it’s nice. He asks about her time in Scotland, but she breezes past it. They both pretend he hasn’t heard her name dozens of times in the English tabloids. He’s so good at it that for moments at a time she forgets about that time of her life altogether. For the first time, she could be this — and only this.

A queen, her English-duke-turned-king husband, and her barrage of guards. But by the time they end up under Westham’s most famous pear tree, everyone is gone. When Allie takes another surreptitious look around, she spots Elle’s blonde hair far away, but for the first time, she and Will are alone.

Allie hasn’t known him long, but she knows just by the way he’s fidgeting with his hands that it’s time. He takes a deep breath, then says, “Every marriage in my family for the last two hundred years has been arranged.” She tries to smile at him, even though she finds that a grim statistic. “And, well, I have something for you,” he continues, hunting through his pockets absently.

“Oh, my birthday’s, like, half a year away,” Allie says, trying to keep herself from sounding agitated. It’s been four days. _Four_. She’s spent that amount of time absolutely wasted at music festivals before.

Then he hands her a film canister. For just a second, she remembers talking to him about photography and she thinks maybe this is something else. But the too-firm and too-mobile rattle as she moves the canister confirms it. “Open it,” he urges.

And she does. A ring rolls into her palm, settling just _so_ with the gigantic, round diamond pointing at her, like it really is fate. “It was my great-grandmother’s engagement ring. She and my great-grandfather were married for fifty-seven years, so I thought it could be lucky for — for us. Maybe.” Allie looks up at him, at the nervous smile on his face, the stray curl falling in front of his eye.

Unbidden, Harry comes into her mind, and she knows he’s somewhere — probably at the Palace, just a short walk away. And he’s there, plotting, while she’s here, a heavy diamond in her hand. Allie forces her mind to Cassandra instead, knowing without a shadow of a doubt that she would approve of this whole-heartedly. And Allie smiles.

“Do I have to put it on myself?” Allie asks softly.

“No, I can do that,” he says, grinning.

And he does.

* * *

_She sneaked him out of her room, down the servant’s staircase, along a corridor. It was dark, and the party was almost over. They giggled louder than they should have, jumping from shadow to shadow in a way that was superfluous but unbelievably_ fun _. Once they got close to the ballroom, they stopped in a dark doorway._

_She couldn’t stop looking at him, even in the darkness. He was grinning and he kissed her. She can’t remember what he said then, or what she said. Nothing profound — they were just teenagers then. She wasn’t sure anyone would ever look this beautiful again — maybe not even him. She kissed him again like it was the end of the world. She still had the feeling of him from earlier in the night memorized, his exact weight on top of her, the softness of his hair brushing against her cheek, the sounds he made._

_“Happy Christmas,” he said then, his voice surprised like it had just occurred to him._

_She laughed, and reached up for one of his curls. She gave it a little tug, and he smiled at her that slow, soft way that made her want to drag him back to her room._

_“See you around,” she said with a grin._

_“Goodbye, Princess.”_

_And he was gone. She smiled to herself as she ran back through the Palace. She gave a spin, just for herself, right there in the middle of an empty Palace hallway. Her white nightdress billowed out like she was back in her ballgown. She spun around a second time, as though it might be magic, wishing she could go back to the beginning of the night and do it all over again._

* * *

**Friday**.

Elle is between them and the double doors, listening to something through her headset. Someone Allie can’t see is fixing the curls at the back of her head, while Allie is examining her makeup through a compact mirror. Somehow she never could’ve guessed announcing an engagement could be this sterile.

“Ready?” Will asks her. 

She snaps the compact shut and nods. “Are you?” she asks. She reaches up and straightens his tie just a millimeter. Everything has to be perfect. This time, she’ll do everything right.

He nods, too.

Then the doors are flung open, and they walk out just as the announcer says, “Now announcing… the royal engagement of Her Royal Highness, Allie Eliot Pressman, Crown Princess of Westham, and His Grace, William LeClair, Duke of Kenilworth.” 

The words boom loud over them, pounding in her eardrums. Their names so perfect and respectable next to each other like that — truly a perfect match. The applause is thunderous, and she glances to the side and sees Will waving politely, just like she is. 

And it’s nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you to my betas, Piper (still_i_fall) & Hannah (emmadecody)!
> 
> Chapter title from Look at Her Now by Selena Gomez


	4. take my breath away, just like a souvenir

Harry sees Allie and Will from across the gardens.

As always, just the sight of her in his peripheral vision is enough to grab his full attention. He sits up straight, his phone falling onto the grass, but he doesn’t care. He’s far away from the path that Allie and Will are walking on, but he can see them clearly. She’s dressed all in pink, her arm looped casually through Will’s like they’ve been walking like that their whole life.

Which they haven’t been.

And Harry knows — because _he’s_ the one who’s been here for Allie’s entire life, not Will. Allie and Harry are the ones who have history, back and back and back to childhood, since before their memories could even capture it. No matter what facade of comfort and familiarity that Allie and Will can force right now, that’s not _real_.

Even the smile on her face looks rather restrained. She’s always been running, running, running, just like Harry has, but she certainly isn’t anymore. Not to mention that outfit — a light pink shirt buttoned all the way to her neck, darker pink pants and blazer. Perfectly prim and proper and pretty. There’s something about her that looks different than Harry has ever seen. Something mature and sedate.

 _Queenly_.

Something hits him deep inside, and he feels nauseated all of a sudden — it’s as good of reason as any to go back to his room and lie down. Not that he’s ever needed an excuse before. He stands up, only pausing for a second to grab his fallen phone, and then he turns and walks in the opposite direction. Back to the Palace.

* * *

_He was already a little drunk by the time she showed up. At first he thought he was hallucinating, but he never once doubted it was her — even if she was only a figment of his imagination. It was a strange thing, to know immediately, just from the sight of the back of her head. There was something about that exact shade of blonde or maybe the exact tightness of those curls, that had him doing a double-take from across a crowded room. Her school was four hundred miles away from his, and, to his knowledge, she had never been here at Cambridge before. But he didn’t doubt it for a second. He knew it down to his gut — maybe even deeper than that. His heart knew it was her before she even turned around._

Allie _._

_“Got your eye on someone?” he heard a voice say._

_But Harry was still transfixed, wanting her to turn around. And then, finally, she did. She was wearing a black shirt, the front a deep V all the way to the high waistband of her skin-tight jeans, the only thing holding the shirt together a few black strips of fabric across her pale skin. There was a grin on her face and a drink in her hand — she looked so comfortable that Harry instantly wondered if she’d been here before and he’d somehow, crushingly, missed it. There was a small, dark girl in a hijab and a mini-dress next to her, and she and Allie were both laughing._

_“Ah, I see. Very hot,” the same voice said — a voice Harry very belatedly recognized as his best friend, Connor. Then Connor nudged his elbow, and Harry hadn’t realized he’d stopped with his cup of beer halfway to his mouth until he sloshed it, feeling it drip over his hand and onto the floor._

_“Fuck,” Harry said._

_“Jesus Christ,” Jack, his other best friend, said with a laugh._

_“Okay, no one’s, like,_ that _hot,” Connor said._

_“Does she have you hypnotized or something?”_

_“It’s the Princess,” Harry said, a little too sharply._

_“The Princess is, like, two,” Connor said._

“My _princess.” He hadn’t meant to say it like that until it was already said, and he knew his face was flaming up as both Jack and Connor looked at him, smirking._

_“Yo-o-o-o-o-our princess.”_

_“His princess!” Jack repeated to the ceiling, laughing so hard Harry thought he might slip right off the kitchen counter he was sitting on. And Harry wouldn’t mind seeing that at all._

_“The princess of Westham!” Harry snapped._

_“Oh yeah,” Connor said, sounding unusually contemplative. “Doesn’t she, like, live in Scotland and fuck totally ripped Highlanders or something?”_

_“Yeah,” Harry said flatly, draining the rest of his beer in just a couple of gulps. “She sure does.”_

* * *

Harry is sitting on a couch in Campbell’s manor, his chin resting on both his hands, watching the TV as Allie and Will wave their hands at the crowd. Allie’s giant engagement ring sparkles even just as a recording on TV. Harry tries not to grind his teeth together, not sure why his stomach is reacting like he just drank poison.

“Well, you were fucking wrong,” Harry says, not even trying to keep his voice from sounding absolutely deadened. “It’s been less than a week, and the Princess has found herself a husband.”

Campbell mutes the TV, and Harry looks at him. Campbell stands, walking to the other side of the room. “Allie can’t possibly be happy with the idea of an arranged marriage. Come on, Harry. This isn’t over. You just have to seduce her. Show her what a real relationship can be like. A relationship filled with heat, right? _Passion_.”

For a second, this sounds like a good idea. A _great_ idea. The cliché pops into his head immediately — him in a florist’s shop, buying a bouquet of roses so big his arms can barely contain it, seeing her blush, ‘Will _who_?’ she says.

As if Allie has ever been that easy to predict.

The brief flame of energy burns out of him immediately, and he has every urge to just lie down and bury his face in a pillow. Instead, he just continues sitting languidly as he asks, “So — what? — she’ll change her mind about that Duke?” he asks. Harry looks at the muted TV just as Will leans forward and gives Allie a kiss on her cheek. Even without sound, Harry can tell the audience has exploded in applause. He wishes the remote was near him so that he could turn the TV off altogether, but it’s probably a good thing considering he knows he would be far more likely to just throw the remote straight through the massive screen.

“Exactly,” Campbell is saying, “and when the thirty-day deadline expires… the throne will be ours — yours.”

Harry looks up, the pieces in his brain finally clicking into place. It takes him a minute to even know how to phrase it. “You want me to, like, seduce her and then, like, fucking _throw her away_ once I get the crown?” He was trying to keep his expression neutral, but even just saying the words out loud has him cringing.

Campbell grins. “I don’t think you’ll be the one throwing _her_ away after that—”

“ _Fuck_ , Campbell.” He jumps off the couch, pacing to the other side of the room. “I’m not doing that.”

“Why not?”

“Look, we fucking talked about this,” Harry says, nausea rolling through his stomach. “I’m just second in line, I can’t change that. Anything else — I mean, I can’t fucking do anything else.”

“Dear God, I’m just asking you to flirt with her.” Campbell laughs, walking over to the liquor cabinet and grabbing a bottle. “I’m not blind, Harry. I’m sure you two have done a lot more than that over the years.”

Harry’s eyes narrow. _Be strong for once in your fucking life_ , he tells himself firmly. “This is getting ridiculous, to be honest,” he says, trying to force himself to sound impassive. “I’m just going to move out of the castle. That Duke Kenilworth guy seems, like, perfectly eligible. Or whatever.” As always, he fades a little by the end, but he still turns towards the door resolutely.

“Harry,” Campbell says sharply, but Harry keeps walking. “I know about your gambling debts.”

And Harry stops, feeling ice creep through his whole body. His brain frantically tries to find another explanation — that he misheard Campbell. After all, it’s impossible for Campbell to know. But even as he tries to reassure himself of that — even just for the briefest moment — he knows it’s a lie. After all, when has he ever been a step ahead of Campbell in anything?

“What — how—?” he stammers, turning back around.

Campbell shrugs, a smile starting to form on his face before he takes a drink out of his glass. “The way I see it, you’re either going to have to take from that big, pretty estate you’ve just inherited — you know, the one that’s going to pay for Jane’s school when she goes off to — what? — MIT next year? And your mother’s _everything_. All that after inheriting it all of four months ago. Quite pathetic. Quite a _scandal_.”

His words sound just as good-natured as always, but Harry can feel the threat coming off of them. He walks back to the couch and lowers himself onto the arm.

Campbell gives him what Harry can only assume is supposed to be a reassuring smile. “I can make it all go away, of course. My dad might not have left me with a place in the line of succession, but I still have a title and I _definitely_ still have money. A lot of it.”

“I can’t believe—” Harry starts to say, faintly.

Campbell’s laugh interrupts him. “What can’t you believe? What fucking kind of guy do you fucking think you are, Harry? You’re going to sit there and act like you don’t have a price?”

Harry frowns at him. “What exactly are you buying, Campbell?”

“Just what I said, Harry. All you have to do is flirt with our dear cousin. I’m sure you can make her forget all about the English Duke.”

“And — and — that can’t be all?”

“Well, you aren’t nearly as headstrong as those Pressman girls, I assume. And you certainly wouldn’t be in the future.”

He knows exactly what Campbell is buying — not just Harry becoming King, but him being King and not fighting Campbell on any and all of the laws Campbell wants to enact. Not like Allie will — Allie, with her moral compass and her compassion and her strength. No, Harry is nothing but the opposite of her, and Campbell knows it. Campbell wants his life and his blind eye and a puppet.

Harry has never knows his weakness has a price, until that moment.

But he thinks of his mother, still seeing that expensive therapist three times a week and still wearing black head-to-toe like she’s a Victorian widow. And Jane — with whatever her new, big dream is that week, all of them involving saving the world starting with presumably years and years and _years_ of university. Campbell is right — Harry can’t save them alone.

Harry has never had anyone depend on him before — he’s barely even depended on himself. And now here he is, just like _that_ , already failed. Just from playing cards, a few times. And drunkenly playing — more than a few times. He can’t even remember having _fun_. It had just been addictive to be doing _something else._

“Fine,” he says, and this time he leaves, not able to stand being there another second.

* * *

_It took longer for Allie to spot Harry from across the room. Harry tried and failed not to take it personally. They really didn’t see each other much anymore. They both managed to spend most of their summers traveling or staying in the UK, so their times in Westham rarely intersected._

_There was something he’s never said, not to his annoying friends and certainly not to Allie. It was just that gnawing ‘maybe someday’ that plagued the back of his mind now and then — whenever he saw her, and sometimes when she just crossed his mind. They had only done anything physical that one time, but Harry certainly had always wanted to again._

_Then, finally, she saw him. He watched her face split into a grin, and he felt himself grin, too. She weaved through bodies to get to him, her eyes locked on his. As she got closer to him, it was like everyone behind her disappeared, until she was next to him and the two of them were the only ones in the whole world._

_“Harry Bingham,” she said, throwing her arms around him. He hugged her back tightly. They were suspended like that, for one infinite moment, that one rare second where everything in Harry’s mind quieted down and it was just_ good _._

_“Princess,” he said when she pulled away._

_“I wondered if I’d see you here.”_

_“Why are you here, anyway?”_

_She looked around. “Sam’s boyfriend goes here. They met each other traveling. But I totally lost him hours ago.” A look crossed over her face. “I bet I can guess what they’re doing.”_

_Harry laughed. “You could’ve texted me.”_

_She didn’t say anything to that, instead just asking, “So are we, like, at your house?”_

_“Well, the house is my friend’s. Technically.”_

_She smiled. “Then give me a tour.” Her hand slipped into his, and he pulled her away happily._

* * *

She’s reading on the double-staircase in the lobby. It’s a strange, sterile place to read — surely there are dozens of places inside and outside of the Palace that would’ve been better suited to it. But there she is anyway, a book open in her lap and her hair draped over one shoulder. He pauses before walking up to her, trying to think about what Campbell said to him — trying to think of the stakes.

And then it happens.

She looks down at her ring, moving her fingers so the large diamond shifts from one side to another. For just a second, he expects to see a smile on her face, but instead her shoulders slump a little as if in a sigh. He doesn’t know he’s in need of fortification until he sees that, but then it’s easy. Maybe she doesn’t want this in the first place, he tells himself — a nice little lie to make himself feel better, and even being aware of that doesn’t stop it from working.

He asks, “Having second thoughts?”

Allie looks up reflexively, her blue eyes wide and guilty like a child that’s just been caught, but then she meets his gaze. She immediately frowns at him, and he can’t help feeling the punch in his gut remembering how happy she used to look whenever she caught sight of him.

“On the contrary,” she says, standing. He’s never heard her voice sound so stiff and formal before. “I was just _admiring_ my ring. It was Will’s grandmother’s.”

“And where is the man himself?” Harry asks, walking over to her, following her as she goes up the first couple of stairs.

“He had to go back to England. Wrap up some things before he moves here. Permanently.” Harry flinches. “He really is just so romantic, you know,” she tacks on at the end, like an afterthought.

He moves closer to her, and it really is the easiest thing he’s ever done. In his whole lifetime of feeling like nothing ever comes naturally to him, _this_ does. Her mouth opens just the smallest amount as he narrows that careful, appropriate distance between them. He hadn’t even known what his strategy was, until he was there next to her. Her hand grips the stair rail behind her, and he wonders if he’s imagining that look on her face — that she wants him to kiss her as much as he wants to do it. Even that small, frozen moment of time between them is enough to make him feel almost lightheaded.

But then she slides out and away from him, walking back across the lobby to the other side of the double staircase. Her heels give a decisive _click, click, click_ against the tile. He takes a deep breath. “Well, if you’ll excuse me,” Allie says, shaking her blonde hair out behind her as she starts to climb, “I have to see to some _wedding_ details.”

She takes a step, and so does he. He mirrors her, not sure what to say, just keeping pace with her. He doesn’t have a plan, but he knows it’s working. By the time they make it to the top, where the staircases meet, she looks disconcerted. The hallway behind him leads to the bachelor wing where he’s been exiled to, and behind her is the rest of the Palace — meeting rooms and parlors and libraries and who knows what else. He can’t see anyone — not even a guard. He’s not sure if they’ve ever been alone together in a room this quiet. Not for a long time, anyway.

“I’m sorry,” she says brusquely, “is there something you wanted to say to me?”

“No, not at all,” he says, giving her a perfect, innocent smile.

“As always.” Her blue eyes narrow. “Never saying what you should say when you should say it.”

“What do you mean, Princess?” he asks her softly.

She flinches a little at the title, but she just says belligerently, “What do you think I mean?”

“Perhaps you should just say it — this thing that you think I should say.”

“You should’ve told me, Harry — about all of this. Back when we were dancing, but instead you just… lied.”

“I don’t think it was _lying_ , exactly—” But he breaks off as he hears voices coming from down the hall. He expects Allie to take a step away from him, to give herself this excuse to leave him. But instead she grabs his arm and pulls him just around the corner to a door, unceremoniously shoving him inside. It isn’t until his back hits a metal shelf full of buckets and cleaning supplies that he realizes they’re in a literal closet. Brooms, mops, bleach. A fluorescent light beating down upon them.

Perhaps the least romantic location imaginable.

“So I just… shouldn’t have danced with you?” Harry asks quietly, purposely being obtuse.

“The dance isn’t the point,” she says, looking up at him with a frustrated look on her face. There’s still something so pretty about her, even in here. A crown made of spare lightbulbs, a scepter of a dingy old mop.

In a rare flash of inspiration, he reaches past her shoulder. “But I _wanted_ to dance with you, Princess,” he says, and flicks off the light. “What else could possibly be the point?” There’s just a faint ring of light coming from around the door. It’s intoxicating, being in there with her. She’s so close to him that he can feel her breath. Even with the smell of cleaning supplies, the floral scent of her perfume is overwhelming in here.

Then she flicks the light back on, unperturbed. It’s obvious he’s the only one who felt it, and it’s all he can do to not frown petulantly. “The point, Viscount, is that I’m onto you.” She moves a step closer, her finger poking his chest in an accusatory way. And that’s the only amount of space between them. “Oh, I sure as fuck am onto you.” She jabs him harder. “I know exactly what you’re trying to do.”

She’s closer than ever when he reaches behind her again, flicking the light back off in a way that would feel childish, if it weren’t for the immediate and overwhelming electricity that comes in with the darkness. “And what is that?” he asks quietly.

He can barely see her pale face, the way her mouth opens and then closes. She’s so close — just so unbelievably close. His hand is still on the light switch, and his whole arm trembles slightly from the strain of _not_ touching her. He can’t help but breathe a little harder, and then suddenly her hand is on his chest. He inhales sharply in surprise, expecting her to shove him back, but she simply keeps her hand there.

“Don’t be stupid,” she finally says, her hand clenching on the fabric of his shirt. He can barely remember what she’s referring to anymore. He leans down like a reflex, and her chin tilts up.

“Princess,” he breathes.

Then the door opens.

It startles them apart. He accidentally rams his back into the shelf, and something on it falls down — but luckily nothing falls on him. The sudden light is almost blinding, and he blinks against it a couple times before he realizes that a maid opened the door on them.

“Please excuse the intrusion, Your Highness,” the maid says, giving a quick bow to Allie, not even able to make eye contact, and then turns to Harry and quickly drops a curtsey. “My Lord.”

Allie’s hands fly to her face for a second, and he gets just a flash of her bright red blush before she rushes out, too.

Now that the light is flooding in from the hallway again, the room is back to being just a supply closet. He exhales and looks at the ceiling.

* * *

_They ended up dancing. They were in the middle of the living room, all the furniture shoved to the side. They were surrounded by dozens of drunken, sweaty, dancing bodies. Harry didn’t recognize the song, but he could feel the bass throughout his whole body. Allie’s gold hair seemed to glow in the semi-darkness. She had her arms loosely draped across his shoulders, her body shoved against his, and they_ danced _._

_Harry thought of all the dancing they’d done before — his hand on her waist, those careful and correct inches of space usually between them, the easy steps — and he smiled. That was fun, but this was different. Wild and free and exhilarating — so different than they could ever be in Westham. Even his hands on her waist felt different — there was less fabric between them, every place their bare skin connected felt like an open flame._

_He couldn’t help but smile as he leaned his head down, breathing her in — and just her scent was enough to launch him back to that Christmas party. That vision of the past, and then, for just a second, feeling that same old vision of the two of them, like this — and more than this — for now and for tomorrow and for a long time. She was the only person in the world who made him think maybe forever was out there, stretched in front of him, and maybe that forever could be something other than tedious. She brought the light with her. It was only around her that he realized smiling could be a reflex._

_She tightened her arms around him, pressed even closer._

_“I’m crazy about you,” he said into her hair, not even sure she could hear. He said it just to say it, because it felt so strong in him that it might burst him open from the inside out if he kept it contained a moment longer. He wasn’t sure he’s ever felt this comfortable before._

_She pulled away from him a few minutes later, and he thought — in that usual Allie way — she would decide things were done simply because they were done. Maybe that was her divine right coming out. But instead she put her hands on either side of his face and kissed him. And he kissed her back — and he wanted to absolutely drown in her. He knew he spent too much of his life being all too aware of other people, only ever thinking about himself in relation to others, but at that moment, it was just him and Allie. And all he wanted to do was kiss her. Kiss her and kiss her and, God, anything else, too._

_He pulled her closer and she pulled him closer and he could taste the vodka on her and he just_ wanted _her. He wanted her all over again, like that time he was fifteen, and she was older and experienced and so unbelievably pretty. Her white dress had sparkled like it was Christmas itself. She would giggle and he could feel her in his arms, like he could touch her laughter and her happiness itself — that’s how important it felt. And the rest — the steady look in her ocean-blue eyes making him blush, her dress slipped lower and lower down her shoulders as the night wore on, the way her waist and hips felt under his hands as they danced._

_Desire had always been an abstract idea until that moment when she changed everything._

_It was the same thing, so many years later — it was strange to have nothing to overthink, nothing to dwell on._

_He thought that maybe it would happen again, but it didn’t. They made out for a long time, in the middle of that dance floor, their bodies moving not with the rhythm of the music anymore, but their own. And he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anything. Now he was older, and he knew more about wanting. But she pulled away with a cryptic little smile, almost a smirk. “Should we get another drink?” she said, and he knew from her tone that it wasn’t a euphemism; she meant_ _only a drink. He nodded. She looked at him like she was pleased she could unravel him, and he didn’t mind that she knew that — he was more surprised that hadn’t always been obvious to her._ _  
_

_She’s complicated, but wanting her has always been a foregone conclusion._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, we've reached the end of the flashbacks! As always, thank you to my betas, Piper (still_i_fall) & Hannah (emmadecody)!
> 
> Chapter title from Souvenir by Selena Gomez (aka the best song on the album).


	5. try to take a shortcut, but I get cut again and again

Allie is in the middle of archery lessons. _What a fucking waste of time_ , Allie grumbled to Grizz and Sam on their way out to the grounds, but she met her instructor amiably enough. One of the coronation traditions in Westham is shooting a flaming arrow through a ceremonial hoop. Grizz has a feeling that archery lessons are yet another thing the second-born doesn’t typically waste time on.

Allie seems calmer now that the engagement has been made and announced, but her mood itself has still seemed sour — Grizz doesn’t think he’s ever seen her go this long without laughing. He tries not to be too concerned, instead just hoping that this change of activity, if nothing else, will be something to lift her spirits. Between wedding planning and the now-infamous run-in with Harry Bingham yesterday, the last twenty-four hours haven’t been the best for her.

She shoots an arrow straight into a tree fifteen feet away from the target. She leans her forehead onto the bow as her instructor gives her a pat on the shoulder. “Can’t I just, like, shoot a gun?” Allie asks. “I could probably do that better.”

Grizz snorts and then turns back to Sam, who’s smirking as well, so Grizz knows he read Allie’s lips. Grizz doesn’t mean to stare, but he’s mesmerized without any conscious thought. He really hasn’t seen Sam smile much, and he wonders why he wants to see it again and again. Then Sam turns those clear blue eyes onto him, and Grizz feels himself blush for the first time in years. He pushes his hair out from his eyes and tries not to look like a schoolgirl with a crush, instead of the inadvertently-still-closeted near-middle-aged man he is.

“She was really in a _closet_ with him?” Sam asks, speaking out loud as he signs.

Grizz has been practicing a little. Okay, he’s been practicing a _lot_ , and he feels a warm burst of pride that he would’ve known all of that without Sam saying it, too. So it takes a second too long before starts signing, too — doing as well as he can while he says out loud, “That’s what I heard. It’s causing quite the stir.”

“It’s always back to Harry.”

Grizz doesn’t know what that means, but he continues, “I’m told he lived here his whole life, up until he went to Cambridge. Did you go to school with him?”

Sam shakes his head. “Allie and I are a couple years older than him anyway, you know.”

“Well, all of you are a lot younger than me—”

Sam chuckles. “And how old are you?”

“Thirty-six.” Grizz can’t tell if Sam’s eyes are particularly piercing, or if he’s just imagining it. If the age difference between Allie and Harry is noteworthy to Sam, Grizz knows there’s not even the start of hope for their age difference.

 _Not that it matters_ , he immediately scolds himself. 

“And what else did you uncover about Harry?” Sam asks, the warmth in his face back to the generic politeness he would offer anyone.

Grizz clears his throat and looks back at Allie as she lands another arrow several feet short of the target. “Apparently he’s a world-class baker. I hear he makes the best eclairs this side of Paris. Plus, I hear he’s quite popular — with women, I mean. I mean, with that face—” Grizz breaks off, hands still in the air, wishing he could blame learning a new language for his inability to coherent around Sam.

Sam’s eyebrows raise. “You think he’s hot, too?”

“Um,” Grizz says. “I mean — yeah. I do.” His face is completely red now, so he throws caution to the wind as he tacks on at the end, “I prefer blue eyes, though.”

Sam instantly blushes, too, his expression curious. He tilts his head, just a fraction, and Grizz feels like he’s being examined under a microscope. It doesn’t feel so bad if Sam’s the one doing it, though.

“I think I might miss far enough that I shoot myself in the face,” Allie says loudly enough for Grizz to hear. 

He and Sam turn to look at Allie, both of them red-faced. She raises her eyebrows at them, smirking at the sight, and that just makes Grizz blush harder. He certainly hasn’t confided in Allie about his growing feelings for her cousin, but he knows she’s beginning to see it.

“Grizz…” Sam says, leaning back on the bench, trailing off for almost a full minute. Sam just stares at Allie, not giving Grizz anything to work with. But his heart starts going erratically, his mind filling in the blank in a thousand different ways — good, bad, and in between. Then Sam finally continues, “Do you really think she could be a good queen?”

Grizz lets out a sigh of relief. He can do mundane. “Yes, I do,” he says. “I mean, I know she’s been running away forever, but I can’t help but think that maybe she’s just used to leaving her potential untapped.”

Sam nods, and Grizz can’t tell if that’s the answer he wanted or not. “The wedding invitations are already sent.”

“Things do move fast around here.”

“I think she and Will make a… fine pair.” But when Grizz looks up from his hands, Sam’s face is scrunched up. “At least — she’s set on it. I’ve never seen her like this before. I guess… maybe Harry will be an inspiration, if nothing else.”

“Do you really hate him that much?” Grizz asks, never having formed much of an opinion on Harry either way. At least, never had an opinion on anything except his appearance, which certainly is only in his favor.

“There’s just not much to him, right? He’s just not…” Sam pauses for a moment, his hands going still. Grizz looks at Allie, who’s bent double in defeat, her long blonde hair almost touching the ground. Then she straightens herself up, her curls whipping through the air and behind her back. She accepts the bow from her instructor with calm, strong grace that’s so hilariously at odds with how badly she’s been doing that Grizz can’t help but crack a smile.

“He’s just not interesting,” Sam finally finishes.

Grizz laughs. “Who’s _interesting_ , really?”

“Well, _we_ are,” Sam says, then, and Grizz doesn’t know how much more he can take of the blood constantly rushing into his face.

The next arrow flies to the next garden, where Grizz hadn’t noticed Harry must have been sitting this whole time. Grizz watches, wide-eyed, as Harry raises a hand after the arrow goes flying into a topiary next to him. Allie raises a hand back at him, and then just shrugs towards Sam and Grizz, not seeming particularly sorry.

Sam starts laughing, and Grizz can’t help joining in, too.

* * *

“We will have somebody come and visit your farm in the morning,” King James is saying, his voice as deep and complaisant as always — nonthreatening but completely competent. “Perhaps we can repair the well and save your field.”

They’re in the throne room, the gold throne her father is sitting is edged with such intricate carvings that it almost looks like a flame. The crown he only wears for special occasions is on his head, and every line of his charcoal suit is crisp and pressed.

Allie herself was forced out of bed early this morning, her long hair pulled into a sleek, elegant knot on the top of her head, one of her largest diamond tiaras placed perfectly in front of her hair. Once again she had to protect her eyebrows with her life, so that by the time Elle and Helena forced her into the icy blue pantsuit, she didn’t have any fight left in her. Then she was unceremoniously sat down next to the throne, in a comparatively nondescript golden chair, and there she’s been for the last hour, watching one Westhamian citizen after another personally approach and make a request of her father — Luke not far away, looking even more antsy than usual.

At first it’s a little nauseating, thinking that she might be responsible like this someday. _In less than three weeks_ , her brain reminds her, threatening to drag her down into a panic spiral. It probably doesn’t help that Harry and Campbell both are part of a small audience of aristocrats watching her. But after a while, she sees the merit in the whole process. The calm, comforting words from her father, the little gifts the citizens give him, the way there’s a member of their staff frantically taking notes after each conversation. It begins to feel like the type of progress that might _matter_. 

The old man extends a basket of vegetables grown on his farm, and James nods his head with an amiable, “Thank you.” Then a guard takes the basket, and Allie hands a glass of water to her father.

“You do this well,” Allie tells him, leaning against the throne. “They really seem to adore you.” She doesn’t add that she doubts they’ll adore _her_ anywhere near this much. She vaguely remembers being around when Cassandra and even their mother did this, but she was so young then and barely paid attention. After all, how could she have known that someday she would be in this position? 

“It’s part of an ancient Westhamian tradition,” he tells her, his fatherly voice back. “You just have to be fair and very honest. Even if you can’t help, you have to show the people you care.”

She nods, unable to keep herself from looking at Harry. Campbell is leaning over to say something to him, and there’s just the hint of a smile on his face. She’s about to look away when Harry’s eyes meet hers. She can’t read anything in them — she wishes there was a challenge in his gaze, so she could hate him. But he just looks at her steadily, like she’s something new but not terribly interesting.

She tries just to focus on her father, to imagine herself sitting on that throne, doing this role, talking in that comforting tone. As the next citizen approaches, it’s easier to forget Harry. And, then, at the end of the conversation, her father says, going startlingly off-script, “May I present my daughter, Princess Allie.”

“Your Royal Highness,” the man says, turning to her, his back bending.

Allie inclines her head just the smallest amount. “Sir.”

“Here is something for your table,” the man says, extended a large basket. It’s business as usual, one of the Palace guards coming forward to take it from him, until the man adds, “She’s my favorite. I hope you like omelets.”

Allie’s eyebrows raise. “May I?” she asks, curious.

“Of course,” he says eagerly.

And she lifts the cloth covering the basket, immediately looking into the eyes of a large, brown chicken. They stare at each other, just for a moment, and then the chicken unceremoniously steps out of the low basket and falls the short distance to the ground.

Allie doesn’t even think about it — once the chicken starts running, she just knows that’s she’s at fault and has to catch it. The crowd erupts and the guards try to help her, but she takes a loop through the throne room, wondering how that bird manages to be so fast. At one point, she nearly loses her balance turning a corner, but she feels familiar hands at her waist before she can do more than stumble.

“Careful, Princess,” she just catches in her ear, Harry’s voice making a small shudder ripple through her body before she’s off again, pink-faced now.

Then her father grabs the back of her jacket as she passes him. “A princess doesn’t chase a chicken,” he says to her, flatly.

She stops, finally _really_ looking at the chaos around her. The phones and cameras are pointed at her, her father is grimacing, nearly everyone is laughing — Campbell nearly falling off his seat from laughing so hard. And through it all, she sees Harry, just staring at her with raised eyebrows, and she can feel the condescension that’s coming through every line of him.

* * *

 _I’m not really sure we should be here_ , Harry almost says. Maybe he would say it, but every imagined response from Campbell makes him freeze over. He’s here, in a television studio, where he shouldn’t be, with someone who also shouldn’t be. Waiting in the shadows as Allie, clad in an off-white suit, sits in a light purple upholstered chair in a bright spotlight. She hasn’t even seen him — maybe that’s why she’s glowing like that.

Someone is perfecting her sleeker-than-usual hair with practiced hands while the group of friends surrounding her appears to be giving her a pep talk. There’s Sam and the Prime Minister and the former King and Allie’s blonde bodyguard and another Palace guard that Harry’s seen too many times to count. It’s quite a group, and he can’t help but feel a pang of jealousy. He certainly doesn’t want to film an interview in front of a live audience, albeit a small one. But he can’t imagine having a group of friends like that, cheering him on and looking out for him and giving him advice or encouragement.

“She looks like she’s about to pass out,” Campbell says to him, laughter in his voice. Harry frowns as he examines her even more closely; she certainly looks steady to him. Her friends gravitate around her like she’s the center of their solar system. And maybe she really is.

“She’ll be fine,” Harry says. He knows he shouldn’t do anything to rile Campbell now, considering he hadn’t even wanted to come here in the first place. But he tends to do anything to avoid even the smallest of battles. God knows that’s never been more true than the last few days. 

“Maybe you should blow a kiss at her.”

Harry looks at him, mouth open in horror, but he’s mercifully spared any response as Westham’s premier reporter, Lexie Pemberton, walks in to her matching chair next to Allie. They have a brief but visibly terse exchange before the cameras start rolling.

The questions Lexie throws at Allie are easy at first. Polite inquiries about King James, about any cuisine Allie missed while away, about the Palace. Harry isn’t sure if he’s ever seen Allie so very _on_ like this — she seems so confident and competent and open. The wide smile on her face is like nothing he’s ever seen, and he feels his heart skip.

Then Lexie asks about the duke, and Harry can’t help but get a sour expression on his face, only exacerbated as Lexie adds, “You seem crazy about someone you met less than two weeks ago.”

“When you know, you know,” Allie says, but her smile isn’t quite the same anymore — Harry can practically see as she puts up her defenses, getting ready for combat. “Growing up the way I did, you don’t expect a typical fairytale romance, so finding it at the end of such an unusual process has been a wonderful surprise.”

Harry grinds his teeth together.

Lexie nods and then asks, “Did you expect that the marriage law would be enacted against you?”

“I suppose ‘expect’ would be an overstatement — it’s only been enforced to various degrees over the years, not to mention that it only applies to _women_.” Allie levels a steady look at Lexie for a second before continuing, “But, regardless, I came back to give this country absolutely everything I can. Law or no law, having another person experienced with public relations and foreign policy can only help Westham in the long run. Lord Kenilworth is just as excited as I am, and we both know he will grow to love this country as much as we all do.”

“Right,” Lexie says, almost dismissively, and Allie’s eyes narrow. “He certainly does seem qualified. I think that to the country of Westham, what seems more pressing, perhaps, is that our fearless leader has barely been around in over a decade.”

The only evidence of Allie’s agitation is when she uncrosses and recrosses her legs. The audience is small, but they get noticeably louder. Harry watches as Allie looks towards the other end of the studio, where her friends are standing in the shadows, just like he and Campbell are. The female guard, who Harry only just remembers is named Helen or Helena or something, takes a step forward as though she’s ready to shut this whole interview down — and Harry has no doubt that she has that ability. It’s only for a second, and then Allie turns back to Lexie.

“There’s no point in denying that I haven’t been present in this country as much as I should have. To say that I was never expecting Queen Cassandra to die would certainly be an understatement. As much as that tragedy — as well as the death of Queen Amanda several years ago — has shaped the modern history of Westham, so have those events shaped my whole life. I think the important thing is that I’m here now, and I’m willing to make sacrifices.”

“I thought you were in love,” Lexie says, sounding unimpressed, the condescending look on her face visible even from here.

“I am,” Allie snaps, the emotion in her voice the diametric opposite of _love_.

“Do you not think the introduction of another option in this matter should impact public opinion?”

“Oh, yes,” Allie says, a grimace twisting her expression, and she looks straight at Harry. Harry didn’t even know she saw him when he came in, but she meets his gaze steadily now. “Viscount Bingham.” She says his name sharply, emphasizing every syllable like the arrows she was shooting the other day. His mind is completely blank, but then he finds himself nodding at her. _Go ahead_ , he thinks. _Give her hell. Drag me through the mud if you have to._

Some of the anger on her face smooths out, and he thinks she might have understood. “The thing is, Miss Pemberton, there’s always going to be ‘another option’ — that’s how the line of succession works. But I don’t think any of us should be too concerned about Viscount Bingham.”

“Well, I am,” Lexie snaps. “Do you really not think your activities in Scotland should disqualify you from the throne?”

“Youthful indiscretions,” Allie says lightly, clearly trying to play it off. Next to Harry, Campbell snorts — and that, more than anything, gives Harry just a moment of warning before Lexie goes on the attack.

“Even ignoring what some might call the _shame_ and _gossip_ that this country has had to endure for years,” Lexie says, leaning forward in her seat, and Harry can see one of her eyebrows lift as though to add, _And I’m not really ignoring it_. “What justification is there for you to just leave the day of Queen Cassandra’s funeral, and to stay away for months?”

“The circumstances are… complex. And really beyond the scope of this interview.” Her voice is flat; there’s a warning radiating off of her, but Lexie doesn’t seem deterred at all.

“You think we can’t understand complexity?” Lexie’s voice is louder than ever now, not far from a shout, and the audience responds accordingly — talking to each other loudly, without any consideration towards Allie.

Helena has moved from the backstage area and is just outside the camera’s reach, ready to step forward if Allie so much as looks at her. But Allie doesn’t glance away from Lexie. “I was just doing everything I could.”

Lexie snorts. “May I remind you that eight _months_ have passed since Queen Cassandra died.”

“I _know_ when my sister died,” Allie says, voice so high pitched that it breaks, just for a second, but it has even Harry taking a step forward — as though there could be anything for him to do. “I’m here now,” Allie says, but she sounds unfocused, fumbling. “I’m here and — and — and I’m making sacrifices.”

“So leading this country that you purport to love is a sacrifice,” Lexie says — a flat statement, not a question.

Then Helena is next to Allie, a hand on her shoulder. “This interview is over, Miss Pemberton,” Helena says with authority. Elle has already swooped in to Allie’s other side, and there’s a quick exchange that Harry can barely follow as Elle and Sam lead Allie backstage. Helena, the former King, and the Prime Minister stay to talk to Lexie in a way that looks deadly serious.

“Well that was fucking _wild_ ,” Campbell says, laughing.

Harry looks at him, frowning. It takes him a second before he realizes that the nausea rolling over him isn’t just for Allie — it’s for himself, too. The sight of Campbell laughing like that is the first time he’s truly realized that maybe he really is just a pawn in all of this.

* * *

It doesn’t take long for all the overly sympathetic words from her friends to start getting annoying. She knows it’s absolutely ungrateful to think that way, but there’s only so long she can have Lexie’s words reverberating through her skull before she just wants to _scream_. Her friends just want to carefully pick apart all Lexie’s arguments and turn everything into a compliment towards Allie. It starts to feel hollow, after a while. She’s certainly not the saint they’re painting her to be.

She wouldn’t be so angry if Lexie hadn’t been at least a little bit right.

Once Helena comes in and reassures her that the Palace has the very strict authority to have anything edited out of the recording that they don’t want aired, Allie realizes that’s the last she wants to hear about it. She sends everyone out of her dressing room to decompress just a few more minutes before going home. She’s in the middle of trying to convince Elle to at least just wait outside the door when someone walks in. Allie looks over, and there he is.

Harry looks at her with a perfectly blank expression, but he stands there expectantly, his silence more of a demand for an audience than any words from him could be.

“Just wait outside, please, Elle,” Allie says.

Elle raises her eyebrows incredulously at Allie. “I’m not comfortable doing that, Your Highness.”

“Harry, are you here to murder me?” Allie asks brusquely. She barely waits for the shocked squeak of a _no_ to come out of his mouth before she adds, “Please, Elle. Just a minute. I mean, there’s only the _one_ door — what could even happen?”

She can practically see the gears turning in Elle’s mind, and Allie knows she’s thinking about that broom closet and coming to all sorts of the wrong conclusions, but she doesn’t do anything to disabuse her of those assumptions. Allie just wants, for one second, to not feel someone looking at her with sympathy.

“I’ll leave the door propped, ma’am,” Elle says, and Allie can’t tell if it’s meant to be a compromise with her or a threat to Harry. Probably both, judging by the glare she levels at Harry as she walks out of the room.

Harry meanders closer to her. Allie is sitting at the vanity, and she leans back in the upholstered chair, swiveling so that she’s slightly angled towards him. Harry picks up a compact from the edge of the vanity, and then sits down on the empty corner. He pops the compact open and then shut again. His curls are falling in front of his face, and he’s dressed in a navy suit with light brown shoes. He looks more camera-ready than she ever did today.

“Why are you here, Harry?” Allie asks, when it becomes apparent that he’s, as always, unwilling to finish what he started simply by walking in here.

His face turns pink. He snaps the compact shut hard and then sets it down. “I just — I hated — I just fucking hated hearing her talk to you like that. And I just — I just wanted to make sure you were, like… okay.”

The first instinct that crashes through her is to be _happy_. Three weeks ago, she could’ve laughed and leaned against him and they could’ve been petty and trash-talked Lexie together, the way she absolutely couldn’t with any of her friends. Sam and Grizz and Gordie and Helena and Elle — they’re all _good_ people. Better than her, and sure as hell better than Harry. She didn’t realize how much she wanted to just be an immature teenager about the whole thing until that moment, and she feels herself unravel all over again. She wants to cry, more than before. Her throat feels tight, seeing how cozy this moment could’ve been.

“I don’t want this from you,” she says — and she barely knows what she means anymore. She wishes everything could be the exact opposite.

“I’m sorry,” he says immediately.

He’s always been a million what-if’s. All the ways her life could’ve gone that might have led her to him. Somehow it always seems like her life could’ve led her in a million different directions, and all but one of them of them would’ve led her straight to him.

And that’s the one path she’s on.

The feeling of him in that closet with her the other day, the way touching him has always felt like what she was _meant_ to do. His brown eyes darker in the dim light, the feeling of his arm reaching across her shoulder so close that she could’ve just tilted herself the tiniest bit and been touching him, the rhythm of his breath getting faster and syncing with hers, the way his curls looked like a dark halo when the lights went off. She didn’t know she could play pretend like that, until she had to pretend not to want him.

And yet the only thing he _really_ wants is her crown. Even knowing it and seeing the evidence over and over again, it’s somehow still hard to believe. “She asked about you,” Allie finally says, her voice quiet but accusatory.

“I know.” And _of course_ he knows. He was _there_. He’s always there now, in exactly the wrong way.

She thinks for a second before saying, “They wouldn’t have even thought about the fact that there’s another person who could take over, if it hadn’t been for you.”

“I know.”

“I just don’t get it, Harry. What have I ever done to you?”

“Nothing,” he says, sounding completely honest for once. “You haven’t done anything — you’ve never done anything wrong. To me.”

It would be easier if he would just pick a real reason to hate her, and then just tell her. Draw something out of a hat: greed, hatred, misogyny. Something she could latch onto and say _that’s it._ But she’s known him her whole life, and Harry is weak in a thousand ways, but his biggest weakness has always just been that — being weak. It’s never twisted itself into anything menacing, until now.

She’s grasping at straws. Once or twice, she’s wondered if maybe he’s acting like this because she didn’t have sex with him at that Cambridge party. But even she couldn’t believe that of him. She had wanted to sleep with him — _God,_ she had wanted to — but she hadn’t done it. She was never one for restraint, but something stronger than logic kept her from it that night. She’s had a lot of sex in her life, but only one memory was irreplaceably precious to her, far beyond her understanding of why. There was a fine, golden haze to it, and the thought of that being tainted had kept her from doing anything more with Harry that night.

“Really, Allie,” he repeats, leaning forward.

“Sure,” she says simply.

“Just think, Princess,” he says, his voice light and joking all of a sudden, “just a few more questions and you could’ve done all my work for me.”

His eyes widen, and her mouth falls open. She thought she was done crying, but her eyes react to it before any other part of her does, and then she’s starting all over again. A lifetime ago, she wouldn’t have particularly cared about crying in front of him, but that only makes it worse. Suddenly she’s mourning the whole thing, feeling a thousand threads snap within her — being a good queen and wanting him and hating him and missing Cassandra and wishing she could’ve kept the version of Westham that was always in her mind when she moved to Scotland. All the lives she could’ve had that wouldn’t have been _this_ one. The way Harry _did_ make that golden, hazy memory turn dark and horrible.

Then she’s crying into her hands.

“Just go,” she says. Her whole body feels like it’s in the _wrong_ place, her throat feels scratched raw, and all she can do is try to control the noises forcing their way out of her.

“Allie,” he says simply, and she finds herself looking up without even having made the choice. He’s standing next to her now, worry on his face with a small white handkerchief stretched out to her. She takes it because she needs it, and before she can bring it to her face, she sees a large, scrolled _B_ in the middle, flanked by a smaller _H_ and _W_ on either side. Harry Winwood Bingham. Then she starts crying again, and she presses the fabric to her eyes.

A few seconds later, she feels a hand on her shoulder, but when she looks up, it’s just Elle.

Harry is gone. 

“I hate him,” she tells Elle, tearing up again, clenching his handkerchief in her fist before reluctantly using it again. 

“So do I, Your Highness.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this isn't the most exciting chapter, but if you've seen Princess Diaries 2, you probably know that something much more exciting is happening next
> 
> As always, thank you to my betas, Piper (still_i_fall) & Hannah (emmadecody)!
> 
> Chapter title from Boyfriend by Selena Gomez


	6. I guess this is what it feels like to be free

“Why are there always macarons everywhere?” a voice asks.

Harry looks up, shocked, and he sees the expression on his face mirrored on the Prime Minister’s. Even though Harry is ostensibly living here — for all intents and purposes — and Visser is the one here at 10pm for no apparent reason, Harry still feels like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. His hands tighten on the pastry bag he’s holding, and it’s only when Grizz looks down that he realizes he’s squeezing too hard. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he mutters, fumbling to set the pastry bag on a clean plate nearby, so that he can grab a paper towel and wipe up the perfectly round glob of batter on the marble counter.

“Um,” Visser says, and Harry looks back up at him. “I’m sorry, My Lord.” Grizz blinks a couple times, clearly trying to force his expression back into neutral lines. Harry certainly doesn’t think he’s ever been alone in a room with Visser. He’s holding a stack of bowls in his hands, one with popcorn still in it, and Harry thinks he realizes why Visser’s in here — cleaning up from movie night, apparently.

Everyone knows the Prime Minister and the Princess are close friends. Strangely close. There were rumors now and then, on those rare occasions when Allie bothered to come back to Westham, but they always died out quickly since they were never spotted together on Allie’s continuous international trips. Harry suddenly realizes that he’s never thought to be suspicious their relationship before, but now he’s counting the stack of bowls to make sure there’s more than two.

“Um, you can, like, just put those in the sink, if you want,” Harry says, pointed to the sink behind him, trying not to be a dick for once. He’s still not over the shock of making one of the most spirited people he’s ever met burst into tears earlier today. He’s been baking for hours and still feels a shudder creep up his spine as the memory threatens to come back into his brain again. “They’ll have enough stuff to clean up in the morning that they won’t even notice anything else.”

Visser walks around and gently finds a spot for the bowls in the massive but cluttered sink. Harry has already been through almost every implement the massive mixer came with — besides the meat grinder and pasta maker. The food processor didn’t fare any better — freshly ground almond meal litters the kitchen, and pieces of the appliance are scattered around the kitchen like a scavenger hunt.

“Thanks,” Visser says, turning back towards the door.

Harry picks up the pastry bag again, assuming he’ll be alone momentarily. Then he remembers what Visser said when he came down, and he can’t help but ask, “The Princess likes macarons?”

Visser turns around slowly, lips pulled down at the corners as though he _really_ doesn’t want to be here. “Yeah, um,” he says, running a hand through his long hair, “rose is her favorite.”

Without even thinking about it, Harry feels himself let out a laugh. Then he meets Grizz’s confused stare, and he stops himself from saying, _She would_. He doesn’t know why, but it just seems so obviously _her_. Even the smell of roses follows her around. She can pretend to have left this place behind, but she’ll always be the girl dressed all in pink eating something that tastes like a bouquet. Harry puts the pastry bag down again and opens the spice cabinet, searching furiously until he finds a pink bottle of rosewater.

He isn’t even sure Visser is still there, and he doesn’t care. He’s halfway across the kitchen, back to the cookbook he’d long-since left behind, when he realizes he should probably finish baking the pistachio ones he’s already made. He wanders back to the half-filled baking sheet with a sigh.

When he looks up, Visser is still there. “I didn’t know you guys had movie night,” Harry says slowly, annoyed that his brief flash of energy is gone just as quickly as it came.

“She had me and Sam — Lord Eliot, that is — stay. I think she wanted to detox after… everything.”

Harry’s gaze flicks up, and the cold stare Visser fixes on him tells him that he’s being blamed every bit as much as that dumb little reporter. He doesn’t know what to say. That he just made a bad joke and had to watch Allie break into a million pieces? That he could’ve wrapped her up in a hug and held her forever? That he’s spent the intervening hours baking and scrubbing his hands raw and wishing he could get drunk and play cards and forget everything? That he hates himself more than Allie ever could?

He doesn’t say anything, finally going back to making the perfect circles of batter on the prepared pan, because at least he can breathe like that. _One, two, three, four_ …

“Why are you so against her being Queen?”

Harry looks up, the question startling him so much that he messes up, causing the last one on the baking sheet looking more like a snowman. That’s the least of his worries. “I—” Harry starts, and then breaks off. He and Visser look at each other steadily, and Harry tries to remember that he’s Allie’s sworn enemy now. Somehow. The thought of being against Allie in _anything_ is really starting to seem more and more incomprehensible, but here he is. Trying to steal her throne, as though she might somehow be unworthy of it.

He sighs and starts again. “I just think,” Harry says, sliding the baking sheet across the counter to let them set, “that she doesn’t really know this country.”

“And you do, My Lord?”

“Yes,” he says mechanically, trying to remember the speech Campbell gave to him. Everything always sounds logical when Campbell says it. Too logical. “I was born here, I went to school here. I certainly don’t blame her, but she hasn’t really lived here. If she doesn’t want to be here — the way I do — isn’t it better to make it so that she wouldn’t feel as bad if she chooses to leave?”

“Well, I happen to feel that she’ll make a great ruler. She’s smart — and she’s passionate when she cares about something. She’s brilliant and _strong_. I know she’ll be able to make the choices she needs to make and do the things she needs to do in order to run Westham.”

“Yeah,” Harry sighs. Campbell’s influence is gone from his mind again, and he certainly doesn’t disagree with Visser. “But — just think of what happened earlier, Visser. How can one rule the people when… they don’t accept her?”

“Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Accept her, My Lord?”

Harry hates even being asked that question, his mind screaming an emphatic _yes_ in response. Instead, he just forces a laugh. “She’s _my_ Princess, too, Prime Minister,” he says, not even knowing himself what that might convey to Visser.

Visser nods slowly, his lips drawn into a thin, contemplative line. “Good luck with your baking, My Lord. _I’ve_ long overstayed my welcome in the Palace today.” He stares at Harry a moment too long, and then Harry feels what the Prime Minister is too polite to say out loud — that _Harry_ is really the one who has overstayed his welcome.

Visser turns to leave, and Harry doesn’t stop him. He does stare at the door after he’s gone, his mind threatening to go where he doesn’t want it to go. To think about his actions and consequences and Campbell and his debts and—

And he looks down, his eye catching on the little pink bottle of rosewater. He picks it up, the faint floral smell coming through even tightly sealed. All those _other_ pesky thoughts are gone as his mind sifts through recipe ideas — shortbread or angel food cake or more macarons or just a lassi or—

“Meringues,” he says to himself firmly — the only decision in recent memory he’s felt good about — and starts looking around for the freshest eggs they have.

* * *

Will is back by her side, having returned this morning, all his loose ends back in England tied into nice little bows. He left a pink box full of rose meringues at her door, and she wonders how he knows how much she loves them. The Palace is having a garden party, despite it being the very beginning of autumn, but the weather is warm and everything outside is still beautiful. Allie is sure that somewhere up the ladder, someone has a political reason that has to do with _her_ for having his party, but for once she doesn’t complain. She accepts the coral dress Helena gives her with an unusual amount of grace. She doesn’t generally wear dresses, but she likes the color, and the matching sun hat doesn’t make her want to immediately dry heave, so she thinks that’s about as good as it’s going to get.

Will meets her in one of the sitting rooms at the Palace, and they walk outside together, the mingling starting the second they set foot outside. She forgot what a shield Will is — everyone who sees him can’t help but like him. Her arm is looped through his like they’ve done this a million times before, and she introduces him to aristocrat after aristocrat. By the time introductions and polite chit-chat are over, everyone walks away from them with smiles on their faces — and Allie can’t even remember the last time she’s ended a conversation with at least a passingly disapproving look.

She feels high on it. _This can work, this can work, this can work_ , her mind tells her.

And it _does_. They graze at the food provided, allow themselves short breaks with Grizz and Sam, and settle in for the live music. Helena appears often and directs them to another important person, always giving Allie a fact about them that she probably should’ve remembered.

It’s never felt this easy.

“Your Highness,” Grizz calls, and she walks over to him, Will still immersed in the conversation she left him in. Grizz is wearing a suit a slightly lighter shade of black than usual — Allie wonders briefly if this is what passes for casual attire to him — and Sam is next to him, wearing just a blue button-down and brown slacks. Her eyes flick between them a couple of times, pleased when Grizz flushes a little. She hasn’t asked him about it yet, but she _knows_.

“Yes, Grizz?” she asks.

He nods his head toward a garden path several yards away. “Look who just arrived,” he says.

And she looks.

There he is — Harry Bingham. In just a second, she has his appearance memorized. He looks like a model in his light tan suit, not much darker than the crisp white shirt underneath it. Then she notices that radiant smile on Harry’s face, and the girl hanging on his arm. The girl is devastatingly pretty despite her plain floral dress — big eyes, bold features, and long, gleaming brown hair.

“Can’t believe he brought a date,” Sam is saying to Grizz.

Allie feels herself grimacing, and she tries to force her face into more neutral lines — all too aware of the massive audience surrounding them — but she can’t do better than a solemn frown. She feels dreadfully uncomfortable all of a sudden — she realizes that the sun is beating down on her, some of her hair is sticking to the back of her neck, the noise of the crowd is too loud, she _hates_ dresses including and _especially_ this one, and honestly this whole party has always been a bad idea.

“Who’s _she_?” Allie finally manages to ask. The girl is looking at Harry like she might see the world there, as if Allie hasn’t already seen everything he has to offer and found it wanting.

“Her name is Kelly Aldrich,” Grizz says. “I think they’ve known each other since Cambridge.”

Allie gaze jerks away from Harry and back to Grizz. _Allie_ was at Cambridge. Sure, it was four full years ago, but she’d spent _hours_ there. Harry’s mind and eyes and hands had been on her, and only on her. They’d been the only two people in the whole room. 

If there’s one thing in the whole world that Allie is sure of, that’s it.

“Harry has a girlfriend?” she asks very deliberately.

“No,” Sam signs.

“All accounts say that they don’t see each other much,” Grizz says, his tone formal again, but he takes a step closer to Sam as though frightened of her. “I gather that when they do — well, it is more than friendship, then.”

Allie looks at Grizz and back at the walking couple. She can’t help but wonder, looking at them, whether this girl is the most important to Harry. Maybe, really, all this time, Allie has occupied space in Harry’s mind simply by virtue of being _first_ and not _best_. Maybe there really has been another girl in front of her, and Allie just hadn’t been aware of it. She knows she’s about to be furious all over again, so she shakes her hair out behind her and calls primly, “Will?”

“Yes, dear?” Will asks, instantly rushing to her side. He looks happy and comfortable and up for anything. She wishes that still felt like a breath of fresh air. Their entire pleasant morning at the party has been usurped, and suddenly that sparkling magic that Will brought into her world feels like it was nothing but a diversion — like she’d been doing nothing more than playacting.

“Let’s go for a walk, shall we?” she asks.

And they do. The garden party is surrounded by hedges containing other, smaller gardens, and they meander very carefully in the same direction that Harry and Kelly went. Will is fiddling with his camera, making friendly comments about the party now and then. After a couple minutes, Will excitedly stops Allie, pointing behind her to the sky as though that means something to her. “Wait, wait, wait,” he says excitedly. “The light is _perfect_.”

“Oh my God,” she laughs, trying to be normal — even though the last thing in the world she could want is photographic evidence of how she _feels_ right now. “God, no.”

“Honestly, Allie, just _one_ more. They’ll put it on a pound note or something—”

“We don’t use _pounds_.” And she’s really laughing now, almost forgetting her anger.

“I promise.”

He lifts his camera to his eye, but she notices who’s approaching them from the other side, and she gently pushes his viewfinder a few inches over, until she knows he’s looking at Harry.

“Oh,” Will says flatly.

“Kenilworth,” Harry says in the same tone.

Will has barely even met Harry, but he’s heard all about the situation — between Grizz and Gordie and Sam and Bean, he’s heard any number of furious recollections of the week’s events that Will missed. Allie is also sure that he’s picking up on how much she can’t stand Harry and is putting up a united front, like the supportive fiancé he is. “I’m Will LeClair,” he says after a minute, forced politeness in his tone. He reaches for Kelly’s proffered hand and kisses it briefly. His gaze doesn’t go anywhere near Harry.

“Kelly Aldrich,” she says with a smile.

There’s a minute of awkward silence, and Allie meets Harry’s eyes. He stares steadily at her, and she lifts her eyebrows just a fraction of an inch.

“Kelly and I were just discussing her latest achievement,” Harry says abruptly, grabbing Kelly’s hand. Allie tries not to flinch. “She just got into Oxford’s medical school.”

“Oh, Harry, _don’t_ ,” Kelly says, blushing.

“Why not brag? You’re _amazing_.” He drags out the word, and Allie doesn’t miss the way he’s looking at her out of the corner of his eye.

“Miss Aldrich, congratulations,” Allie says, smiling. For a second, she wants to ask Kelly more about med school — Allie herself doesn’t know much, but she does know that Westham’s entire medical system could use a major upgrade. But she can feel Harry’s eyes on her, daring her to be jealous, and she hates that she _is_. Instead of choosing the high road, she goes back to her much-more-traveled low road. “You know, _Will_ has a PhD in Fine Arts from Oxford.”

Kelly opens her mouth to say something, but Harry takes a step closer to Allie and says first, “Well, that’s fantastic, but Kelly was in the Peace Corps.” His eyes are intense on hers, but she almost feels relieved. She knows that he’s seeing her, and only her.

She didn’t realize how much she’s depended on that.

“Really?” she says, more than happy to beat Harry at his own game. “Will spent four months in Papua New Guinea taking photographs for National Geographic.” She can’t entirely remember moving, but they’re barely inches from each other now.

“Well, Kelly single-handedly—”

She notices over Harry’s shoulder that Kelly still has her mouth open to speak, so she takes it upon herself to interrupt, “Miss Aldrich is actually trying to say something. Miss Aldrich?”

Unexpectedly, Kelly turns to Will. “Your Grace, would you like to get a drink? I have a feeling they’re going to keep playing this game for a while.” She laughs in an awkward but friendly way, and Will laughs with her. Before Allie can fully comprehend what’s happening, Will is offering his arm to Kelly and the two of them are walking off in the opposite direction — back to the thrum of the party.

Suddenly, the game they were playing feels unbelievably silly. She looks up at Harry, realizing again how close they are, but now her brain is finally rational enough to scream at her in reproach. She takes a step back, but she can’t help but exchange an embarrassed, contrite look with Harry. They did _that_ in front of _people_. Suddenly she’s flushing with embarrassment, and she knows he feels it, too. He fixes his dark teal tie and then shoves his hands in his pockets. Allie fixes her coral hat and smooths the ends of her hair.

“It’s a lovely party,” Harry says stiffly.

She doesn’t mind going back to basics, so she matches his stiff formality as she says, “It is. Thank you.”

“You two make such a lovely couple,” he says, and the little smirk that flickers across his face is the only warning she gets before he adds, “It’s a shame you aren’t attracted to each other.” Then he turns and walks further into the gardens.

She has a sudden, violent urge to _scream_. Her hands ball up into fists, her nails digging her annoyance into her palms. She watches his back as he walks around a hedge taller than him until he’s completely disappeared. _Out of sight, out of mind_ , she tries to convince herself, but the blood pounding in her ears seems to call out his name. After trying to breathe slowly, she gives another furious little shriek to herself, and she’s following after him in a rush.

“Come _back_ here,” she says, a little too loudly, when she turns the same corner he did. She didn’t realize how private it was in here until she sees him just a few feet away, and they’re surrounded on every side by walls of dark green hedges. There are topiaries everywhere, circling a large fountain in the middle.

“You can’t just say something like that and then just leave,” she snaps. “I’m _very—_ ” She breaks off as he turns around. She could handle the sight of the back of his head, but then it’s his profile and then he’s facing her, his eyes on her as his whole face crinkles up into a smug smile.

She isn’t sure why she’s never gotten used to him. Surely just the sight of his face shouldn’t still have the power to take her breath away.

“I’m very attracted to Will, you know,” she finally manages, but it sounds wildly unconvincing, even to her own ears. Any attraction she’s ever felt towards _anyone_ pales next to what she’s feeling right now.

“Well, obviously,” he says easily. Too easily.

“I _am_ ,” she says, and she doesn’t know why she feels the need to elaborate. She just _hates_ his smug face and she just _hates_ that he’s been in _her_ castle trying to steal _her_ crown all while he’s probably _fucking_ _Kelly_. “We’re, like, perfect for each other. Um, he’s just — so lovely. He really understands me.”

“He understands you?” Harry repeats sarcastically. “Wow — how passionate.”

She’s never heard him sound quite like that, and maybe that’s what brings her back to her senses. He’s looking down at her, almost frowning now, and she remembers — like an afterthought — that she hates him. Any game he wants to throw at her, she’s more than up to the challenge. After all, she only has two more weeks that she has to survive before he goes back to just being another name in the line of succession.

_She’s_ the Crown Princess. _She_ was born for this.

“Ugh,” she says, rolling her eyes and snorting theatrically. “You are _so_ jealous.” She knows there are plenty of responses that would take them out of this childish argument, but she has a compulsive need to see what his face might transform into.

But nothing flicks across his expression, even for a second. “Why would I be jealous of Kenilworth?” he asks. “He’s got to spend the rest of his life married to _you._ ”

Her eyes widen, a little stung in spite of herself. “I hate you,” she says inelegantly.

“I hate _you_.”

She takes a step closer to him, and — as always — they’ve somehow drifted until they’re just inches away from each other. “I’ve always hated you,” she says, a lie so blatant that probably even the hedges know. Her whole body vacillates for a few seconds, and then his hands are on her face. She stops, and he’s _right there_. His eyes are wide and brown and shockingly earnest, his mouth drops open slightly, and he’s still so devastatingly beautiful she feels it like a knife so sharp it might kill her all over again. Just like that time when they were dumb teenagers.

She has time to move, but she doesn’t want to. She wants him, she wants him, she _wants_ him.

And he kisses her.

Her arms wrap around his neck, somehow the only reflex she’s had in weeks that doesn’t give her even a tinge of cognitive dissonance. Maybe because he feels so many shades of _right_ that it’s undeniable. She hasn’t even kissed Will once, but she knows she could kiss Harry forever. She’s lived twenty-five years and has a _lot_ of points of comparison, but no man has ever felt better against her. It’s not even a comparison. No man has ever unraveled her the way Harry can with just a kiss — once, twice, and now three times.

His hands on her waist, pulling her flush against him. The taste of him, the feeling of his tongue on hers. The way her body melts into him, like they were literally made for each other. Every part of it — it’s both exactly as she remembers and so much better than that. Their lips and breath and bodies move together until it twists itself around and convinces Allie that this is _fate_.

That thought has her flinching back from him. His brown eyes look surprised but still hazy. One of his hands is still on her waist, his fingertips curling as though reflexively beckoning her back to him. The sight of him — as unraveled as she is, lips red, a blush creeping over his face — almost has her going back. _What is reality, anyway?_ she wonders philosophically, just knowing how much she _wants_ him. _That’s_ what’s real — not whatever is going on beyond their little garden here.

He’s still the most beautiful man she’s ever seen in her life.

“We can’t just kiss?” she says, what should have been a statement coming out as a question. She wishes she could bend morality to her will, but now that she’s away from him, she can hear the sounds of the party far off. “I’m engaged, Harry,” she finally adds, a little more resolved now.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he says, and both of his hands go to her hips. “I really don’t give a shit right now, to be honest.”

And maybe she doesn’t either, because she kisses him again. His bites her lip softly and she’s wild against him, but not for long, and then that other simple, incontrovertible fact comes back from the recesses of her mind: _The only reason he’s doing this is to steal your crown._

For just one second, she doesn’t care. She’s always been so controlled by her impulses, and the feel of Harry’s hands through her thin dress is making her shiver. His lips on hers are too persuasive — even if he doesn’t have any earnest affection, is that any reason to _stop_?

_Think of Cassandra_ , the generally-absent angel on her shoulder reminds her, and she pulls back from Harry immediately. _Cassandra, Westham, I’m just a stupid little girl who can’t be trusted to rule a country unless_ —

“You’re just doing this so that I won’t marry Will,” she says, in a flat tone.

“No,” he says, too quickly, his hands still on her hips — right where she likes them. Then he laughs, his whole face glowing with it. “I mean, God, Allie, you know I just like kissing you.” And his grip tightens on her, pulling her closer, and it _is_ a convincing argument, just for a second.

And then she’s furious. She shoves him away, taking a step back herself, but then she just feels the back of her calves hitting stone. Harry lurches forward, and she can’t tell if he’s trying to help her or harm her, but then she’s falling.

Straight into the fountain.

Her head is underwater just for one startling second, and then she sits up, looking to her right and seeing him sitting there, soaking wet just like her. Tan suit ruined with his dark curls just a jumbled, soaking mess. Somehow, it isn’t even a bad look on him, but she’s sure she looks more like a drowned rat. He looks just as startled as she feels, but she just grabs her wet sunhat trying to float off and stands up, absolutely furious.

“I have a _great_ idea, Harry,” she snaps. “Why don’t you go back underwater, and I’ll count to a million?”

Then she storms off, the water splashing off her dress with every step.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's been reading & commenting! 
> 
> As always, thank you to my betas, Piper (still_i_fall) & Hannah (emmadecody)!
> 
> Chapter title from Let Me Get Me by Selena Gomez


	7. with my feelings on fire, I guess I'm a bad liar

She barely slept last night, that kiss replaying over and over in her head every minute of every hour. She was wrapped up in pink blankets like she wanted to be wrapped up in him, and she wanted to scream in frustration like she wished she could scream out his name. Her lips still burned from him, and she could still feel his hands on every inch of her, even where she only touched herself. Just the memory tortured her, but she wanted him again like a drug. There was another time, not that long ago, where just seeing him lit her up like the sun, but it had devolved into this.

Logically, she knows he’s mediocre. But every time she thinks it, her mind rejects it. Against all reason, he’s never been anything but extraordinary to her. And _for_ her. She just wishes she could be sure she’s seeing his reality rather than his potential.

She can try to justify it in her head a thousand different ways: Harry _is_ next in line, Campbell _might_ have a hand in it, _maybe_ it _was_ Harry’s father’s dying wish? But she always comes back down to the same answer: if their positions were reversed, she wouldn’t be doing this to _him_.

She hopes he gets a cold and dies.

Eventually she sleeps. Just an hour or two. She wakes up, bleary-eyed and frustrated all over again. By then, the weather has turned, aligning with her mood until she can hear thunder outside. She has breakfast brought to her, manages an almost-normal conversation with Elle, and then wraps herself in her softest, pinkest blanket and throws herself on the couch. She rather dramatically wonders if this is what going through withdrawals feels like.

Elle passive-aggressively leaves a comfortable but presentable outfit of jeans and a green sweater thrown across a chair before she goes back to standing sentry outside the door. Allie just turns the other way on the couch so that she’s looking at nothing but the upholstery. She knows she should be talking to her father and certainly Will. She tried to smooth over everything yesterday, but she was probably forgiven so easily simply from looking like a drowned rat. Will had seemed confused but not angry — he doesn’t seem to think of Harry as a threat, and Allie certainly wishes he were right.

When there’s a knock at the door, Allie can only think of people she doesn’t want to see. And when she opens the door, still wrapped in her blanket, there’s Grizz, his face disapproving. Another flash of lightning brightens her dim room, just for a moment, and the frown just etches deeper into his face. She turns back to her room, trying to see it with fresh eyes — all the lights turned off, the bed unmade and messy from all her tossing and turning, the perfect outfit laid out and ignored, the plate of half-eaten breakfast, the other plate of almost completely eaten pear-shaped frosted cookies.

She turns back to him, shrugging her shoulder unapologetically. The room looks like she’s a girl who got broken up with in a 90’s rom-com, but she doesn’t care. “You know,” she says, “you _are_ allowed to go home every once in a while. I don’t need, like, _another_ full-time babysitter.” She throws herself back onto the couch, curling up.

“You think I’m going to stay away for a day?” Grizz asks, following her in. The insides of her eyelids turn red, and she knows he’s flicked on the light. By the time she bothers to look at him, he’s sitting on a chair across from her — the one without the clothes on it.

For just a moment, Allie takes his words at face value. Her already-short timeline is half gone, and Grizz is nothing but loyal. All the evidence adds up to that statement being true, and yet there’s something almost frenetic in his eyes that hasn’t been there ever before, something that’s surely not born from any of her numerous mishaps. Then she notices that he appears to be completely dry despite it being a torrential downpour outside.

Then she realizes, and she laughs. Interest sparks inside her until she feels a flood of energy, sitting up on the couch.

“You _stayed_ here last night.”

* * *

Harry spent all night thinking about her. Thinking about her, wanting her, wishing he knew for one single second a way out of this whole situation. Sometime in the middle of the night, the clear starry sky turned into a thunderstorm like the Old Testament God trying to punish him for his sins. And that’s when he thought of it — absolution. Going to Allie and telling her absolutely everything. But then he would be stuck in the same place — so deeply in debt that it would destroy not just himself but his family. And — worst of all — on Campbell’s bad side. Harry is certain Campbell can turn every aspect of this situation into problems that Harry hasn’t even considered.

There is no escape.

He drank, not enough to get drunk, but just enough to act like a sleeping pill. He certainly has plenty of experience in that matter. It worked; he doesn’t wake up until there’s a knock on his door and his sister is announced. Besides the knife looming directly over his neck, he feels surprisingly normal. He brushes his teeth frantically, splashes water on his face, and then runs down to the foyer, where Jane is bent down, examining the moasic floor. 

“What are you doing here?” he asks unceremoniously.

He had barely believed she could really be here, but there she is. Coming in with the thunderstorm, her long ponytail so wet it almost makes her hair look straight, and it drips steadily onto the floor she was examining. She just looks up at him, straightening up, her trademark wide grin on her face. Only Jane would come unannounced to the Palace wearing muddy violet combat boots, black leggings, and one of his old Cambridge sweaters.

“I heard you made quite a splash at the garden party yesterday,” she says, the restrained laughter in her voice bubbling over until she’s giggling madly at her own pun. She ambles towards to him. “Plus, like, I want to see the Palace, too, you know. It’s been a couple years since I’ve been invited to one of their stuffy, lame parties.”

Harry can’t help but laugh. Sometime during the night, his mood must’ve shifted, because he feels lighter than he has in days. He’s always liked rain, and it must’ve washed away all his fears and silly confessional ideas from last night. Now his mind is just the memory of kissing Allie over and over again, on a loop he doesn’t have any intention of stopping. Even he had no idea where his real feelings stopped and where his act started. They happened simultaneously, in perfect synchronization.

He can still feel her against him.

“I suppose we can’t walk around outside,” Jane says, as a crash of thunder comes overhead, and it jolts Harry out of his memories. “So I guess you’ll just have to give me a tour.” She grins at him, and he knows that’s what she wanted all along.

* * *

“You _stayed_ here last night,” Allie almost shrieks.

Grizz’s mouth falls open and his eyes widen. “No,” he says, too quickly, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. 

“Oh, God, Grizz — come on. I can tell you and Sam are… something.”

Just Sam’s name makes him blush, and after a few seconds, he’s red all the way to his ears. A small smile comes across his face, obviously belying his words as he says, “No, I really just came over — it’s really not that early.”

“Since when do you lie to me?” It comes out a little more sharply than she intended. “You might not be out, but you’re out to me, remember? I can see you two cozying up all the time. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you being, like, fluent in sign language now. I’m not _blind_.” She knows she has no right to be this frustrated, but there’s a lot in her life right now that doesn’t add up. There’s a lot she’s not seeing, but she sees _this_.

He just looks at her, redder than ever now, and he doesn’t say anything. She sighs. Something about him looking like that — soft and happy and in love and willing to lie about it — hits her. Why does Sam get to come home and find probably the best man in Westham? Why do some people get to be happy?

Why can’t Harry ever be decent for once in his bloody life?

“I’m happy for you,” she adds softly. And she is. She just hates always being a step behind in everything.

“Thanks.” His voice is barely more than a whisper, but he looks giddy. “But, you know,” he says after a minute, voice switching back to Prime Minister mode as he straightens his back formally, “you still haven’t told me what exactly happened yesterday, at the garden party.”

“Nothing,” she says reflexively. She knows Grizz won’t be put off long, but there’s no part of her brain that can come up with a reasonable explanation. It comes back to her — Harry against her, Harry’s lips on hers, Harry’s words.

_It’s a shame you aren’t attracted to him_.

Allie lies down again, back to feeling lethargic.

“Seriously?” he asks, and she almost smiles. She can’t even remember when in the last two weeks that Grizz became so informal with her, but she loves the change.

“I mean,” she says, grimacing, “it’s not like you’ve ever felt the need to tell me anything.”

He lets out a startled laugh and then nods, which she knows is as much of an admission about him and Sam as she’s going to get this morning. He stands up, and — for just a second — she thinks that might be the end of it. Then he says, “I think you need a walk.”

“It’s, like, thundering every two seconds.” Right on cue, thunder booms out, and they both look towards the window as lightning flashes through the sky.

He grabs her wrist and starts pulling her up. “If only you lived in a Palace.”

* * *

Harry and Jane meander through the foyer and down the hallway, following the marble checkerboard floor with no particular plan in mind. Jane can’t help but move slowly, reveling in her love for art, pointing out paintings and picking up vases Harry has walked past dozens of times without seeing. He wishes, just once, he could see the world through her eyes — maybe he would be happier. Maybe he’d fuck up less often.

“I just don’t get why you’d take Kelly to the party,” she finally says, as they walk into a blue parlor that Harry’s never been in. “I mean, when I heard, I really thought about crashing it and killing you.” She pauses and then adds, “I better get more invitations when I turn eighteen, I swear to God.”

He leans his shoulder against the doorjamb, while she wanders the perimeter of the room, staring at the ceiling. He glances up, and there’s a mural of a pear tree on it. He had barely even remembered that he brought Kelly. After the fountain incident, he’d gone back to the Palace with just a quick text to her. He’s fairly sure she’s back in England by now. “What’s wrong with taking Kelly? I mean, obviously she’s not an aristocrat, but since when does that—”

“I don’t give a fuck about that,” Jane interrupts. “I mean, I guess — did you want to make Princess Allie jealous?”

“You think she’d get jealous?” he asks, smirking. He remembers how hard she’d tried to make Will look good once he started talking about Kelly’s accomplishments. That really got lost in his head, with everything else that followed, but he feels a warm burst of pride in his chest. For once, one of his plans had worked. “Kelly was wrapping up travel in Paris, that’s all. No ulterior motive.”

Jane looks at him, her dark eyebrows lifting sardonically.

Sure, Kelly was one of the most beautiful, intelligent, and accomplished women Harry had ever met. And, in spite of sleeping together a few times in his early days at Cambridge, that’s all it ever was. Neither of them had ever actively decided not to pursue it, but it simply hadn’t happened. He knew that if he could twist himself into Kelly’s version of him, he’d be a better person, but he knew he wouldn’t like the man on the other side any more than he likes this reality.

“Lexie Pemberton thinks Princess Allie shoved you into the fountain, but _I_ think Allie got jealous and shoved you into the fountain,” Jane finally explains, and Harry frowns, just hearing Lexie’s name. “It really — wait, is that a Cézanne?” She points to the still life painting in the corner, walking across the parlor to get a closer look.

“She didn’t shove me. We fell.”

“I think it _is_ a Cézanne.” She looks back at him, a smile on her face.

“We have a lot of paintings at our manor, too, Jane.”

“Not _Cézanne_. And how would you know, anyway? It’s been two weeks since you’ve been home.”

“I was gone a lot longer when I was at—”

“I don’t give a fuck about Cambridge.”

He can’t help but let out a laugh. “Your shirt says otherwise.”

She sticks her tongue out at him and then turns all the way around. The apples and pears of the painting frame her body. “Harry, people don’t just fall into three-foot tall fountains.”

“She tripped,” he says. “And I, like, tried to catch her. It’s not a story. It’s a non-story.”

She rolls her eyes and walks back over to him, and they turn back to the hallway. It’s after 10am, but they seem to be the only two here, besides the occasional guard. It occurs to Harry too late that maybe everyone else is at Church.

“I don’t believe that for a second,” Jane finally says. “There’s always been something about the two of you. I always thought—” she breaks off, looking towards the door, silent for one long second. “Did you hear that?”

* * *

And with that, Allie and Grizz are off, Elle trailing behind them inconspicuously. The thunder still rumbles occasionally, and it feels damper and colder than usual. Allie tucks her arms across her chest.

“You know I have to ask—” Grizz starts

“Do you?” Allie interrupts petulantly.

He smiles but continues, “Did Harry push you?”

Allie stops at the top of the staircase, unable to even take another step from laughing so hard. The sound rings down the staircase and through the foyer. “God, no.”

“He’s trying to steal your throne. Is it really so unbelievable?”

That stops her laugher immediately. They stare at each other for a long moment, the grim expression on his face making her frown. That fact always seems to slip out of her mind. It’s so irreconcilable with her other thoughts that there’s nowhere to file it. “We kissed, okay?” she says. Telling the truth is easier than acknowledging that Grizz might have a point.

She can hear Elle groan from a few feet down the hall, and Allie throws her a peevish glance before turning back to Grizz, who looks strangely concerned. “Did he make you—”

“Jesus Christ,” Allie interrupts, “No, God, Grizz. What is with you and Sam? God. Sorry, but like, Harry’s the hottest fucking guy I’ve ever seen, and I guess I don’t have any willpower around him. Okay?”

Grizz groans. “Seriously, Allie?”

She just shrugs, and then starts racing down the stairs. She doesn’t know how to explain it to him if he can’t just _see_ it — if he can look at Harry and not find him anything worth remembering. By the time she’s at the bottom, Grizz is barely halfway down. “I’m a mere mortal,” she calls.

“Imagine that like fifteen generations of monarchs led straight to you.”

She tries to frown at him, but she’s laughing by the time he makes it back to being next to her. She knows she should feel ashamed, but she doesn’t. She had wanted to kiss Harry, and she had kissed him; every moment of her so far hedonistic life had led her here.

“What about Lord Kenilworth?” Grizz asks quietly.

That hits her, and she just stares at him. “When we’re married—”

“You think that the second you have a ring on your finger, you won’t want to fuck Harry anymore?” Grizz snaps, falling out of step with her to stride forward and then turn around abruptly, blocking her path. He’s so tall that it almost feels threatening, just for a moment.

She frowns at him. “Well I haven’t fucked him yet, have I?”

“Besides when you were seventeen?”

Her eyes widen, and she almost shrieks, “Sam told you that?”

Grizz just rolls his eyes at her, as if to say _of course_ , but then his eyebrows furrow together. He asks abruptly, “Did you hear that?”

* * *

“No?” Harry says, wandering towards the door to glance down the hallway. They’re near another staircase, but he certainly didn’t hear anything.

She slips out from behind him and walks a few feet to the next room, walking in unceremoniously. He follows after her, as always. He _has_ been in here — the library. She has a glint in her eyes when she sees the walls lined with books, all the way to the ceiling, but before she can wander off looking for first editions of Ann Radcliffe or something, he grabs her arm. She whips her head around — on purpose, he realizes a second later, as her still-damp ponytail smacks him across the cheek. She nearly collapses into giggles, and he certainly drops her arm.

“Come on,” he says. “Just say what you were going to say. About me and the Princess.”

“I don’t think you want to know,” she says, shrugging, her face serious now.

“Yes, I do.” He crosses his arms over his chest.

“Well…” she trails off, looking carefully away from him. “One time you said you lost your virginity when you were fifteen, so I always thought—”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Jane,” he exclaims, taking a step back, feeling his face flame up. He can’t even remember telling her that, and he wishes he could go back in time and murder his past self. 

“Well,” she says again, laughing now, “don’t ask questions if you don’t want to know the answers.”

“No,” he denies frantically. “It wasn’t her. It was a girl from school.” He wonders why women always seem to be so fucking perceptive. Just once he’d like to tell a lie and have it stick. He waits on pins and needles, expecting her to ask him the name of the girl, and fuck if he can remember a single name of any girl in his high school at this particular, tense second.

“Sure,” she just says, voice complaisant. She throws a quick look towards the open door, and he can feel that she would press him on the subject, under different circumstances. She wanders farther into the library, and this time he doesn’t stop her. There’s a leather chair just a couple feet away from him, and he sits down gratefully.

* * *

“No?” Allie asks, looking down the hallway, empty except a couple guards standing sporadically.

They walk down, the first door is the library, and Allie almost walks in before freezing abruptly, her arm reaching out and accidentally smacking Grizz in the chest in an effort to get him to stop. “How much do you work out?” she can’t help but whisper irrelevantly at him.

“Seriously?” he hisses back.

Then she listens again to the voices in the library, knowing she recognized Harry’s voice before she was consciously aware of it. “Just say what you were going to say,” Harry is saying, sounding annoyed. “About me and the princess.”

“I don’t think you want to know,” a girl’s voice says, and Allie peeks around the doorway just long enough to confirm it’s Jane — just a flash of her long, dark curls before Allie leans back out of sight. She looks up at Grizz, who looks confused as to why they’re still standing there.

“Yes, I do,” Harry says.

“Well,” Jane says. There’s a long pause, in which Grizz gestures back to the stairs, but Allie gives a vehement shake of her head. Then Jane finally continues, “One time you said you lost your virginity when you were fifteen, so I always thought—”

Allie’s mouth drops open, and she claps a hand over it. She turns wide eyes to Grizz, but he doesn’t look like he finds this interesting.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Jane,” Harry says.

Allie tugs frantically at Grizz’s arm, and then drags him back to the stairs, running quietly up them and down a hallway, until they’re probably a quarter of a mile from the library. “Oh my God,” she almost screams, bouncing up and down on her feet. “Did you _hear_ that?”

“Fifteen was like, way before you had sex with him—”

“ _I_ was seventeen, he was _fifteen_. Grizz, don’t you know what this means?”

“You slept with a fifteen-year-old and are shocked that might’ve been his first time—?”

“I swear to God, have you never looked at his face?”

“I really don’t know why I should care that you took Harry Bingham’s virginity.”

Allie rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t know what to say — she’s trying to figure it out herself, but she just knows she’s _ecstatic_. She can barely stay still, walking farther down the hallway and then back again.

“Allie,” Grizz says, grabbing her shoulders. Startled, she looks straight into his eyes. “You aren’t in Scotland anymore. You’re here. You’re getting married in twelve days. Harry Bingham is nothing.”

She doesn’t mean to frown, but she can feel it coming over her. Something about hearing Harry dismissed like that pisses her off. “He’s not _nothing_.”

“He _is_. He’s nothing _to you._ You aren’t seventeen anymore. Anything that happened back then — it really doesn’t matter. You know that, right?” His hands are tight on her shoulders, almost bruising pressure.

“I know,” she says, her voice small.

“Then why the fuck are you acting like this?”

And she tries to think. She wants to think about the future, not the past. Harry is so absolutely mired in the past that he should be synonymous with it, and yet his face appears no matter what time she thinks about. “I’m just not sure how to leave him behind.” Her voice is barely more than a whisper — it’s so honest that it feels too intimate to say in front of anyone, even Grizz.

“You know what he’s—”

“Yes, I know what he’s doing to me,” she interrupts sharply.

“Then you have to focus on this country and your fiancé. That’s why you’re doing this, right? I know you didn’t make this decision lightly, Allie. If you’re going to commit, you need to commit. There’s the annual parade tomorrow — this is one of the first times the people of Westham will see you presented as our leader. You know how important that is, right?”

Allie just stares at him for a second. “I know,” she says.

They look at each other, and Allie can see the questions she doesn’t know how to answer passing over his face. Why she’s acting this way, how she feels about Harry Bingham, why she just can’t quit him. Why the idea that she was his first is so important.

She knows that virginity is nothing more than a social construct, really, but for some reason, this _does_ matter. She had always assumed that she was just one of many to him, but she _wasn’t_. That night, so irreplaceable and magical to Allie, was probably even more to him. They’re bound by something Allie hadn’t even realized.

“You’re still thinking about him,” Grizz says then, voice flat.

“Yeah.”

“I swear I have got to get him out of this Palace.”

* * *

“You know,” Jane says after a few minutes, and he looks up from his phone to see her holding open a large, leather novel, “You aren’t, like, being kept in a dungeon, you know. You can go out—”

“I go riding—” he tries to interrupt, but she bulldozes on.

“—maybe come see Mom once in a while. This is the longest we’ve gone without seeing each other since—” She breaks off, just pointing to the black Cambridge written across her shirt, and he can’t help but crack a smile.

“Yeah, I know,” he says. Sometimes he feels trapped here like a ghost; his business is still unfinished, so he’s stuck within these walls. The thought of leaving when his time limit is so short is somehow beyond his comprehension. Allie is such a wildcard; if he left for five minutes, she could’ve turned the whole game inside out and invented a new one.

“I mean, I had to come here to deliver your mail like I’m a fucking courier or something.” A surprised look crosses her face, and Harry knows that she forgot that she actually has a reason for being here in the first place. She snaps the book shut and walks over to him, hiking up her shirt to pull a thick, folded sheet of paper from the pocket in her leggings hidden near the waistband. She throws it into his lap unceremoniously.

_Lord Harry Winwood Bingham, Viscount of Bingham_ is written on the outside in beautiful, sloping calligraphy. Ostensibly, there’s nothing threatening about it, but that doesn’t stop him from feeling so cold he shudders. He unfolds it slowly and reads:

_His Royal Highness, King James Pressman requests the pleasure of your company at the Marriage of his daughter, Her Royal Highness, Allie Eliot Pressman, Crown Princess of Westham with His Grace, William LeClair, Duke of Kenilworth on Friday, 23 October, 2020._

Harry looks up, the pure white paper starting to shake in his hands. He’s known he would be invited, but between all the little games and talking with Campbell and trying to avoid any further stress at all costs, this never crossed his mind. Jane just stares at him, for once her expression not holding that usual glow of warmth — she’s looking at him like he’s one of her science experiments, and one that she thinks won’t lead her to the conclusions she wants.

“You didn’t have to bring this,” he says, voice ice cold even to his own ears. He extends the invitation back to her.

“It’s yours. Why would I take it back?”

He brings it back towards him, feeling like it’s a knife hanging over his neck — why is he bringing it back closer to him? He can’t help but look back at it — the Westham royal crest at the top, the thin line of metallic gold along the edges.

_Allie Eliot Pressman with William LeClair_.

“She can’t really marry him,” he says hollowly.

“Why not?” Jane says with a laugh, but Harry can’t even look up. He just stares at the cursive curves of her name. _Allie Eliot Pressman, Allie Eliot Pressman, Allie Eliot Pressman_. _The Marriage of_. Capitalized like that, like it’s the event of the century.

He can’t imagine her, in less than two weeks from now, a gold wedding band on her finger, that Duke a permanent fixture at her side. Two weeks from now, a year from now, ten years from now. Will will become _forever_ to her the way she could have been to Harry. But that belongs to Will, now, and he seems warm and likeable and they’ll probably be happy — over-the-moon happy. Surrounded by all Allie’s friends and this literal Palace with a union blessed by the whole country.

“He’s a duke and soon she’ll be Queen,” Jane is saying. “Quite a relief, honestly, considering your threshold for stress and, like, conflict.”

She isn’t wrong, but it still stings at him.

He can’t imagine never again being able to dance too close to Allie, never catching her looking from across a crowded room, never hearing her laugh. Every time he hears her laugh from now on, knowing it’ll only ever be caused by someone else. Knowing that someone else was smart enough and good enough to choose her and be chosen by her.

“We should get you a new tux,” Jane is saying. “Let’s just go shopping now. I brought the driver and everything—” Then she breaks off, and he finally looks up at her.

Her brown eyes are like a mirror of his own, and they just stare at each other. He doesn’t know what she’s seeing, but judging from the way her expression flickers from confusion to annoyance to understanding to finally landing on pity, he thinks she knows something beyond what he does. It’s like there’s a barrier in his mind, and he can’t think it.

He just can’t think it.

There’s Allie and the Duke and he just hates it so much he wants to throw up. If he thinks it with any more clarity than that, something beyond the muddy recesses of his brain, then it’ll be too real. The invitation is still in his hand, hanging by his side, feeling heavy like it’s dragging him into the ground.

“You’re such a fucking idiot,” she sighs, sitting on the arm of his chair.

“I don’t think I can go shopping today,” he says hollowly.

“Yeah,” she agrees, frowning at him. “I suppose not. But Harry — just be smart about everything. I don’t know what Campbell’s saying to you — but nothing he said that first day really matters, you know? We were all just messing around, you know?”

“Yeah.” He forces a smile. “I know. Well, thanks, Jane.”

“Harry, I’m serious.”

He stands up. Distantly, he remembers feeling happy when he came down to see Jane, but it takes him a second to remember why. Then, like the faintest echo, he remembers kissing Allie yesterday, the way she felt against him. The way his entire body wanted her to stay like that forever. He almost laughs. She might have kissed him, but she’s certainly marrying someone else.

“I know, Jane,” he says. “I’m fine, really.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you to my betas, Piper (still_i_fall) & Hannah (emmadecody)!
> 
> Chapter title from Bad Liar by Selena Gomez.
> 
> I posted a Hallie one-shot a week or two ago, please check it out if you haven't yet!


	8. I know you’ll have the choice, before it gets too dark

The sun is more blinding than Harry feels like he’s ever seen before, probably because of the endless storms yesterday. The sunny day is perfectly fitting, almost cloyingly so, since it’s Westham National Day, a celebration of Westham retaining its independence during the Alsace-Lorraine division in 1871. Once a year, on October 12th, there’s a parade, followed by eating and drinking and celebrating into the night. The town square is completely full of people, and decked out with banners and red and white flowers.

Campbell and Harry are sitting in a small, sectioned-off area for aristocrats. It’s certainly less jam-packed, but the bustling, buzzing noise from the rest of the crowd seems like it might be more fun. “So how are things going with Allie?” Campbell asks, a good-natured grin on his face as he watches the high school band pass by. Harry knows Jane is somewhere nearby, with her herd of friends, having a great time.

“Fine,” Harry says shortly.

Campbell leans closer to give the illusion of intimacy, then says, “I’m going to need more than that.” He smiles when he says it, but his eyes are deadly serious.

They’re surrounded by people, but it’s pretty loud from the parade, so Harry doesn’t know if he should be cryptic or if Campbell is expecting candor. He can’t even stand the idea of saying Allie’s _name_ in front of him, with that predatory look in Campbell’s eyes, so he goes with the former. “Everything is under control,” he says simply — a lie, of course. He’s never felt more _out_ of control.

Campbell lets out a laugh. “Let’s hope so, Harry.” His grin fades as he looks off to the side, and Harry follows his gaze.

The Duke of Kenilworth is standing across the street, and Harry instantly feels his jaw clench. He’s in another sectioned-off area, with Visser and Sam and a few others that Harry vaguely recognizes — and Harry suddenly realizes that _that’s_ the chosen area, the special area just for the Princess’s favorites. Dancers cross in front of Harry’s line of sight, but he stares at the Duke another long minute, fury coming off of him in sickening waves. “She can’t marry him,” Harry says, more to himself than Campbell.

“That’s the idea. God knows what will happen otherwise.”

And Harry looks at him, at the cold look in his blue eyes, and he can hear it as clearly as if he spoke it: _God knows what will happen to_ you.

The crowd gets even louder, and Harry feels himself standing, instinctively knowing what’s next. And there it is — coming around the bend — a white, horse-drawn carriage, with the the former King, the Princess, and King James sitting in it, waving to the crowd. Allie looks stunningly pretty, wearing a bright turquoise dress, high collared and edged with pearls. Her curls are up and framed with a silver tiara that looks pure white in the sun. There’s a smile on her face that he hasn’t seen it what seems like forever.

He feels lighter at just the sight of her.

She notices him, and he expects her smile to fade at the sight of him, but she grins instead. He feels it straight through his heart, until he’s unexpectedly grinning back. Just like always, for that one long second, it’s just the two of them. Her fingers wriggle just at him, and then she turns back to the rest of the world.

When he sits back down, Campbell is looking at him, eyebrows raised. “Maybe everything _is_ under control,” he says, sounding surprised. His voice is loud but so obviously for Harry that it feels even closer than a whisper in his ear, and Harry shudders.

It makes him think — himself in that carriage, the bright glow of the sun above him like God himself is smiling down, the crowd of people waving and clapping. Waving back, a crown on his head and a smile on his face. Him being _King_.

And he wants to vomit.

He knows that’s the point of all his actions the last couple weeks. He _should_ want that — anyone would. What better thing is there than to be king? Wars and wars and wars have been fought for that very honor. But he can feel the brutal pressure on his back and his neck and the crown of his head. Even the imagined weight is too heavy. He looks at Campbell, who’s smiling at him in a way that looks almost genuine.

Harry knows he should feel proud, but he just feels worse than ever. He stares at the top of Allie’s golden head as the carriage drives away.

* * *

Allie doesn’t think that most women would feel such absolute dread at being put in a white, horse-drawn carriage. To someone else, this might be fulfilling some sort of princess fantasy, but the reality of it just feels cold. James is next to her, and Gordie sits across from them — Cassandra’s revered husband, even if he has no actual political power. There they are — three sort-of monarchs, no _real_ monarch. For now.

They’re surrounded on every side by people waving their miniature Westham flags, and at first Allie is terrified. As though the whole world is closing in on her, and nightmarish images of them booing her, pulling at her, yelling at her — it plays over and over again in her brain. At first the noise sounds angry, and her carefully composed smile freezes on her face. Then she realizes that they genuinely _are_ happy. They’re yelling and jumping and pointing and waving _back_ at her. And, for the first time, Allie feels as though maybe the cards aren’t stacked against her.

Her eyes find Lexie Pemberton in the crowd, a usual sour look on her face, and it’s all Allie can do to not stick her tongue out at her. That interview days ago is still caught in her head, and knowing there might not be any lasting damage is enough to lift Allie’s spirits in a way she hadn’t known she needed.

So by the time she sees Harry, she’s already in a good mood. He sticks out, not just because of how effervescent and eye-catching his beauty that’s innate within him, but because he’s the one beacon standing absolutely still, his brown eyes wide with some sort of worry. He looks at her; out of the hundreds of people surrounding them, he looks only at _her_ , like he has no interest in so much as glancing at the rest of the world. And she smiles. She can’t help it. Before she knows it, she’s grinning at him, without even realizing that she just wants to see that anxious look leave his face.

Like the sun breaking through the clouds, he grins back. She can’t help but give another wave, just for him.

Then Gordie kicks her foot.

“Seriously?” she asks, but her smile fades back into the prim and proper lines, and she goes back to her gentle wave to the crowd.

“I should be the one asking _you_ that,” Gordie says, his eyebrows raised. “Harry _Bingham_ , really?” James just laughs, low under his breath.

By then, they’re long past Harry. She tries to think about something else — anything else — but like gravity, she’s pulled back to him, and she turns around. Just for a second, long enough to see him frowning at Campbell.

She turns back in her seat, wondering. There’s every reason in the world to frown at Campbell — and do a lot worse — but she can’t help but see the pattern forming. Campbell seems to be following Harry around like a ghost.

The carriage continues through town, the crowd never thinning. They pass shops, churches, even some lofts, and then — near the end — there’s the hospital. Allie has never really thought about the hospital. Despite her mother dying so young and Cassandra’s various medical needs, she’s barely ever _been_ to Westham National Hospital. But she’s shocked to find it looking so run-down — nearly in a state of disrepair. Her smile fades completely as she looks at the tall, grey building, with the stone that needs repaired, the landscaping that’s nearly dying. And, then, she notices a hand-painted sign hanging from a window of one of the rooms near the top of the building: _We can’t all leave the country for our medical care._

This time she kicks Gordie, then remembers just in time that she shouldn’t point — otherwise she would draw attention. “Look up there,” she says, barely tilting her head. Both Gordie and her father look up.

“Yeah,” Gordie says, looking back at her with a solemn expression. “People aren’t, uh, necessarily happy with the state of the hospital.”

“We have nationalized healthcare,” Allie says, frowning. “This isn’t _America_.”

He smiles. “Yeah, well, I would maybe say medicine is hugely _under_ -allocated in the budget.”

“Was Cassandra worried about it?”

“No,” James says.

“Yes and no,” Gordie corrects, lifting an eyebrow at James — which is about as confrontational as he gets. “Parliament, uh, has other priorities. Cassandra picked her battles.”

Allie is glad they’re getting to the end of the parade, because she can barely keep the smile on her face. They finish out just a couple minutes later, Allie unable to stop looking back and seeing new cracks in the building. Once they’re out of the carriage and no longer conspicuous, Allie pulls Gordie aside.

“Come on,” she says, pulling him in the direction of the hospital. Elle rolls her eyes next to her, but she just seems relieved Allie is back on the ground and next to her.

“Um, what?” Gordie asks, but allows himself to be tugged.

“We have to go see the shitty hospital.”

“I’m not sure if it’s _shitty_.”

She looks back at him with a frown, giving him another very firm pull. They’re walking through a street behind the city center. “And what exactly do you intend on doing?” Gordie hisses, looking more confused than anything.

“Allie,” James calls, but Allie doesn’t stop. Gordie is finally walking next to her of his own volition, and the hospital is already back in sight. Luke catches up to them first, putting his hand on her arm. Before Allie even knows what’s happening, Elle is between them. As though Luke — whom Allie has known nearly her whole life — could ever be a threat.

But it’s certainly enough of a pause for James to catch up to them, looking almost leisurely, with his usual smile on his face. “Are you… going to the hospital?” he asks, one of his eyebrows raising like this is nothing more than a passing plot twist in a movie.

“Yes. I mean — God — it’s _my_ hospital, isn’t it?” she says without even thinking about it, just frustrated that everyone is questioning her over something so simple. Then she sees a look of pride come over her father’s face, and she realizes what she just said. She feels herself flush a little. “You don’t have to _come_ ,” she adds, sounding like a toddler.

He smirks at her. They stand there, the autumn wind blowing around them, the noise from the crowd still almost deafening even though they’re no longer even on the same street. Allie tugs the sleeves of her turquoise dress lower on her hands, and she didn’t even realize Helena was there until she gasps at the abuse of the fabric.

“You two go on ahead,” James says, waving his hand airily. “I’ll be there in a second.”

She has no idea if he’s trying to use reverse psychology on her; he’s always impossible to read. She takes a second to wonder what sort of chaos he could possibly stir up out here — and the possibilities are too endless for her mind to even start to sift through. But once she has the bit in her mouth, she can’t be turned away, so she just shrugs. “I don’t care whether you come or not,” she says, and it isn’t a lie.

She, Gordie, Elle, and Helena finish the short walk to the hospital. They pass by a couple people, but they just stare in silent shock. Allie starts to wonder if this is a bad idea when she realizes that going to the front entrance of the hospital will put them right back in the middle of that crowd. But then Gordie opens a side door for them, and she goes in. There’s a woman who examines her with quiet shock, her eyes growing bigger as all four of them step inside.

It’s dark and cold inside. It feels more like an old bank than a hospital.

“What can I do for you, Your Highness? Is something — the matter?” She examines Allie up and down with practiced eyes as if looking for a wound.

“I, um, wanted a tour?” It comes out like a question, and the woman’s eyes just bore into hers.

“I _told_ them not to put out that sign,” she says, sounding annoyed — not at Allie, but maybe the whole world.

“I _really_ just wanted to look around. Though, maybe—” And then she breaks off, not wanting to ramble endlessly the first time she tries to do something remotely queenly. “Could you give me your name?”

“Gwen. Gwen Patterson,” she says. “I’m the manager. So to speak.”

“Do you have time to show us around, Miss Patterson?”

Gwen’s eyebrows lift, and Allie can’t tell if it’s because the request is too rude or too polite. Either way, Gwen agrees readily enough. Allie and Gordie follow closely after Gwen, always looking carefully at everything she points out. Unlike the noticeable cracks on the stone outside, the ways in which the interior of the building falls below par is more subtle. Sure, there are the cosmetic fixes — lights broken here and there, some tile missing, floors slanting just enough to indicate there’s either water or foundation damage. But more concerning items come out with Allie and Gordie’s overly-specific questions — the age of the equipment, the number of specialist doctors employed, the median income of patients at the hospital versus in the entire country. By the time they make it up to the room with the girl who was hanging the sign from her window — who they decide not to disturb — Allie and Gordie already have a pretty complete view of the situation.

The hospital, if not literally falling down, is out of date, underfunded, under-researched, under-staffed, and anyone with any amount of money goes to another country, leading to further budget slashes every year that only exacerbate the problems.

Allie wanders into an empty patient room, her heels clicking on the linoleum. Elle stands in the doorway after doing a sweep around the perimeter, but Helena and Gordie are close by as Allie paces. “Cassandra _always_ went to France for, like, even her annual wellness checks, right?”

Gordie nods. “There was honestly never even a _question_ of not going.”

“This is insane,” Allie says. “This is, like, _fucked up_.”

Elle clears her throat pointedly, and Allie looks up to see her father walking into the room. He gives Allie a wide-eyed, meaningful look — that childish one he gets sometimes, like he wants to ward off any blame before his misdeed has even been discovered. Allie doesn’t have long to wonder about it, because immediately behind him is Harry Bingham.

His eyes are on her before he’s even in the room, and he takes a purposeful step towards her, before immediately stopping and walking over to stand against the other wall. He’s wearing a dark green peacoat, his hands shoved in his pockets, his head tilted down but his eyes looking up at Allie. She wishes he didn’t look as breathtakingly beautiful as always. Somehow, she realizes she isn’t even surprised to see him — it’s like she knew all along he belonged here, too. And she smiles at him, watching in satisfaction as he smiles back at her, his own like a multiplication of hers, so big and bright immediately — like all he needed was her happiness to feel it tenfold — and then she can’t help but grin, too.

Every time.

“Allie,” another voice says, and she looks back towards the door, seeing Will.

“Oh,” she says, with a nervous laugh, reaching her hands out as he comes forward. His hands go to her waist and he kisses her cheek. “I’m so glad you came,” she says, as though he’s crossed her mind one singular time since he helped her into the carriage hours ago. He smiles at her, quick and sincere and unsuspicious.

Harry is too magnetic; she has to look at him. He’s just staring at her, all evidence of that grin between them erased as he scowls. He’s leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. He looks like a moody teenager in some grim teen drama. Or like he’s selling cologne marketed to men who think being angry is a personality trait. Allie almost finds herself smiling again.

“So everyone’s here?” Allie asks, looking around — Will, Harry, Elle, Helena, James, Luke, and even Grizz must have sneaked in. All eight of them are squeezed into the room. Just the sight of them all is overwhelming. She certainly knows everyone, but everything has changed now. She’s standing at the far side of the room, furthest from the door, and everyone has shifted around her like she really is the center of this little universe. What started out as barely more than a whim — just dragging Gordie along because she was curious and he’s science-minded — has turned into this.

The first time she’s really felt like a queen.

“What exactly do you have planned?” she asks James; he always has a plan, and he normally just lets it play out if no one actively drags it out of him. Maybe she would have allowed him that fun, if it weren’t for him bringing Harry into it. Allie has never said a single word to her father about Harry, but there isn’t much James misses; he certainly hasn’t missed whatever this is.

He looks a little disappointed, as he always does when people don’t just go along with him. “Harry,” he says, a little sharply, “tell us what happened to the late Viscount Bingham.”

Harry looks startled but not shocked — like James already gave him a warning. “Um,” he says slowly, looking down at his hands. “Yeah. My father started having some heart palpitations — nothing, like, overly concerning. Nothing we hadn’t seen before. Uh, Jane was out, on a weekend trip with her friends. Like she does. My family — we usually go to Switzerland for any sort of doctor’s appointments or anything. I mean, it isn’t like we would come _here_. Plus, Switzerland, you know — then we can go skiing after. Or whatever. So we were flying to Lausanne, and then — then it happened. He had a heart attack. There was nothing — nothing we could do. By the time we got to the hospital, he was…. It was too late.”

Allie starts to move forward, but Will’s arm is still around her waist; he’s doing nothing to restrain her, his arm is just gently resting on her, but it feels to her like a vice. She watches as Harry looks resolutely away from everyone, spinning his signet ring around and around his little finger.

“I’m so sorry, Harry,” she finally says.

“This is impacting even aristocrats,” James summarizes immediately. Allie stares at him for just a second. Even though he acted like he didn’t care in the carriage, she knows that he — as much as her — has been impacted from people dying too young. He has as much reason as her to want change.

Then she looks back at Harry, and, like he feels her eyes on him, he finally looks at her reluctantly. His eyes are bright with tears. He has a look on his face like she could make him feel better, if she wanted to. She doesn’t know if she’s projecting, but it feels like a challenge. They’re surrounded by people, including her fiancé, and she can’t do anything beyond try to convey sympathy with a look. It feels hollow even to her.

“If you need me,” he says, breaking their eye contact, “I’ll be around.”

And then he’s walking towards the door, everyone parting for him like the Red Sea, and then he’s gone. Everyone fills in the gap until it’s like he was never even there, and the buzz of conversation that immediately rises up feels sacrilegious to Allie.

“You okay?” Will asks under his breath. She knows he’s just being kind and attentive, but it makes her feel weak. She isn’t the one with problems.

“Stop,” she says loudly, and everyone does. She takes a step forward, finally disconnecting herself from Will’s touch. “Gordie, your father was granted her baronetcy from, like, pharmaceutical research, right? What the hell happened to that research?”

“It was sold,” Gordie says, rolling his eyes.

“To Germany,” James adds. “For quite a lot. Frankly.”

Allie frowns. “Well, get your super genius father and doctor brother and I’m sure we can figure some immediate plan out.”

Gordie winces. “My brother is in—”

“Can you get him here?” she interrupts.

“Probably.” He looks at her steadily for a minute, something like surprise on his face. “Yes.”

“Then let’s do that. And a lot more, too. We’re going to fix this. This problem is impacting everyone on every income level. The late Viscount Bingham certainly is an example Parliament will respond to. If Parliament wants me to sign their fucking budget into law when I get married, then we’re going to have to reallocate some funds. I will play the dead sister card if I have to. I will not budge an inch on this — we need a whole new hospital. I’m talking serious investment — infrastructure, new talent, research facilities, the whole thing. I don’t care if I have to build a med school myself. Okay, Grizz?”

He nods, a small, proud smile on his face. She looks around. _Everyone_ looks impressed and a little shocked.

“Okay, well, I’m going to take another loop. By myself,” she adds pointedly to Elle, knowing it won’t do anything to stop her. And sure enough, even as she wanders out of the room, her ghost follows her. Allie wonders when was the last time she heard footsteps that were only her own.

She does start walking around the floor, wondering if she’s really going to be reduced to asking a stranger if they happen to have seen Harry. Just as she resigns herself to the awkwardness that’s sure to result, she notices a door marked _ROOF_ ajar. She looks around, knowing down to her bones that’s where he must be.

Without even a second thought, she opens the door and walks into the stairwell, leaving only the tiniest sliver of light coming in behind her. She makes her way to the roof, stepping out into the pink sunset evening. She was right. Even his silhouette is enough to tell her that it’s him.

“Harry,” she says softly. He turns around, a small smile on his face before he even sees her. His eyes are crinkled up, like always, like just seeing her is a miracle. Then his smile extinguishes, the brief flame that it was, and then his mouth is set into a cold line, his eyes shining brighter until she realizes he’s about to cry again.

“I’m so sorry,” she adds. At first they just stand there — a few feet and miles apart. Then, without even thinking about it — without listening to that voice inside her that tells her that he’e still her enemy — she walks over to him and hugs him. Just like she wanted to in that hospital room. He’s stiff for just a moment, and then he wraps his arms around her waist. They don’t say a word because there’s nothing to say — they’ve both felt stress and pain and loss, but being together has always alleviated those feelings. He leans down to bury his face in her shoulder, and her hand goes to his hair, his soft curls threading through her fingers like silk. She kisses his hair without even considering it, and nothing has ever felt so natural. She can feel his arms and his warmth and his heartbeat and she doesn’t want to ever let go. He feels like the whole world.

“It’s weird how tragedy seems to just follow the two of us around,” he says softly, his voice shaky.

She knows what he’s referring to, and at first that’s what she thinks of, too. Her mother dying before she was even a teenager, living her whole life knowing that Cassandra might not last another day, thinking every time her phone rang that it might be _the_ call. And, then, when it finally was — seeing her older sister in that casket, lowered into the ground.

Gone.

His breath is warm against the high collar of her dress, and then he straightens up, his arms still around her but no longer enveloped in her. She can see his face now, every line of him tight and tense. He’s still so beautiful though — maybe more than ever, looking absolutely ethereal surrounded by the pink sunset. She thinks about losing him, too, in just two weeks, and it feels like yet another tragedy that she’s willfully walking into. Damage has been done to her over decades, and yet this feels like the last crack that might shatter her.

“Yeah,” she agrees, tightening her arms around him. For just a minute, she can feel whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I can't believe The Society got cancelled, and I'm sure I'm not the only one still mourning its loss :( 
> 
> However, if you're worried about this fic being abandoned, it certainly won't be! I've finished writing the first draft of everything, so it's definitely done and it might even start being updated more often. If you want to commiserate with me, [follow me on tumblr @Hallie-Society](https://hallie-society.tumblr.com/) and feel free to send me asks/anything! (especially about our favorite human disaster, Harry) 
> 
> As always, thank you to my beta/best friend Hannah (emmadecody)!
> 
> Chapter title from She by Selena Gomez.


	9. like a beautiful breakdown, it’s just not right

Nearly a full week has passed since the parade and the subsequent hospital visit. Allie has never had such a productive week in her entire life — which probably says more about the ease of her life than anything else. Between wedding planning and putting together emergency plans for the hospital, she’s barely had a minute to herself. Though, with Helena at the helm of wedding planning, Allie’s role has been so reduced that she doesn’t do more than approve or disapprove whatever decisions Helena deigns to put in front of her. Which is about as much input as Allie _wants_ to have.

For the first time, it feels like a _good_ busy. She no longer wakes up with a sense of dread. Suddenly, everything in her life makes sense. It’s been an inspiration for her to finally get a grasp on the laws waiting to be signed when she’s coronated. Now she fully understands the budget and has already spurred Parliament into making changes. Some of those old men still look at her like she’s a silly little girl speaking out of turn, but a few of them really seem as though they’re starting to listen. Even though Grizz has always been nothing short of respectful to her, she hadn’t realized he wasn’t fully acting like she was an equal until now; she had to earn it first.

She can’t remember the last time she’s felt like she wasn’t just taking up space.

Even Will fades in and out of her life at convenient intervals — offering help and moral support when needed. His strength lends her strength, and — for the first time — she knows with absolute clarity that this can work. This can be her whole life. She can learn to solve problems rather than just petulantly staying one herself. At the end of the day, she feels satisfied — mostly, anyway.

It’s a big palace and she hasn’t seen Harry in days. She isn’t sure if he’s avoiding her, or if her new routines are simply taking them on different paths. Soon they’ll be in different worlds, back where they should be — this whole month a silly, nightmarish little blip. So she tries not to think about him.

It’s finally the weekend, so maybe she _would_ have had a chance to think about it, if it weren’t for Bean showing back up yesterday in the late afternoon, a bottle of cheap sparkling rosé in her hand and an invitation for Allie to Allie’s very own bachelorette party.

When Allie thinks _bachelorette party_ , she thinks something wild and crazy and drunken. Bean quickly assured her that she knows Allie would never want that — with clarity Allie doesn’t even have about herself — but, rather, she invited all the international princesses they know for a slumber party. Allie had laughed, unable to keep an edge of bitterness out. International diplomacy was her life now, she supposed.

And that’s how she’s ended up in a room full of twenty screaming girls running through the throne room, which has been fully decked out with a projector, pillows roughly the size of beds, and seemingly infinite pink decorations. Allie is perched on a violently pink pillow, legs crossed under her, sitting off to the side with Grizz and Sam — whom Bean cast a disapproving look when Allie dragged them down here. She holds out a pink, plastic shot glass, and Sam pours amber liquid into it. Allie throws it back quickly, trying to taste the cinnamon-flavored whiskey as little as possible.

“This is supposed to be family-friendly, isn’t it?” Grizz asks her, eyebrows lifting.

“They’re playing _Little Mermaid_ ,” Allie says, her face falling back into natural lines as the burn of the alcohol settles into a pleasant warmth in her stomach. She gestures at the opposite side of the ballroom, where Princess Ariel is projected. “They won’t notice the whiskey.”

Grizz and Sam were both allowed grudging, reticent entry by Empress of the Party, Bean, but Allie has a feeling they were expected regardless, as Bean had two extra of the pink sweatshirts she made for the occasion. Bean’s proudly proclaims _BRIDESMAID_ on the front, which may or may not have been technically true — Allie would have to check with Helena on that. She’s more than a little amused at the sight of Grizz and Sam in them, though. Especially Grizz, who looks unlike Allie has ever seen him — his long hair up in a messy bun at the top of his head, his sweatshirt somehow oversized even on him, and his hand gently resting on Sam’s thigh.

Allie’s sweatshirt is white — _white_ , white like a wedding dress, like her _wedding_ dress, white — the word _BRIDE_ in absolutely massive pink letters on the front. On the back, in much more delicate letters: “His Queen.”

It isn’t _not_ fun. The princesses — varying in age from only four to Bean and Allie’s own twenty-five — seem to be having a great time. They were all warmer and friendlier than Allie really had any hope of them being; though she’s met most of them, she wasn’t sure what sort of reputation she was garnering these days — internationally, especially. But it certainly just felt like more work.

She hadn’t even considered what a bachelorette party might look like, but this would not have been it.

“Six days,” Sam says softly, holding up the sign for the number six long after he’s done talking.

Allie looks up, frowning.

“Six days,” Grizz repeats, frowning. “That’s crazy, huh, Allie?”

“Crazy,” she repeats flatly, holding her shot glass out for a refill. She has only had a couple shots — nowhere near enough for her to even feel buzzed yet. Sam refills it for her, and she can’t help but think he put less in.

“How’s wedding planning?” Sam asks.

“Great.” It’s the word she’s used all day for that very question. She didn’t realize it would be such a popular one.

Sam’s clear blue eyes stare into hers. He _knows_ her, better than anyone. Sometimes she forgets that. But what’s he going to see, looking at her — that marriage isn’t exactly her favorite prospect? Anyone could see that. She just holds out her cup again, a petulant frown on her face, but Sam moves the bottle minutely away from her. She lunges forward, nearly falling off the overly-plush pillow, but he puts it on the other side of him.

“Seriously?” she hisses furiously. “Since when do _you_ try to stop me from drinking?”

“Seriously?” he signs back, not even bothering to speak out loud like usual. “Why do you think?”

“What the fuck, Sam? It’s my _bachelorette party_.” When she’s finished signing, she gestures her hands around frantically to the group of two dozen girls piled together watching the movie, giggling together and singing along with Princess Ariel.

“You know why.”

His eyes are intense, and she knows she’ll regret it, but that self-destructive part of herself has to know what he’s thinking — what someone else is seeing with their eyes. “Tell me.”

He frowns, sitting up straighter, and exchanges a quick, significant look with Grizz. Allie is already grinding her teeth together by the time Sam turns back to her and signs, “You’re getting married in six days to a man you aren’t in love with — and the other man you can’t keep your hands off is somewhere in this palace. Why the fuck else would you think I won’t let you drink?”

Allie frowns, too. _Can’t keep her hands off_ — it isn’t exactly inaccurate. But his words being true don’t make them any easier to stomach. “I’m not going to _do_ anything. I’m a big girl, Sam.”

He snorts. “Yeah? You were skipping through the hallway because you found out you took his virginity.” Allie shoots a glare at Grizz, who barely bothers to look sheepish. “You fell into a _fountain_ because you were _making out with him_. I mean, Jesus Christ, Allie. Only a fucking moron would allow alcohol into that equation.”

She takes a deep breath and says in the most rational tone she has, “I’m… in control.”

Sam snorts, and even Grizz touches his own forehead with his hand. “The stakes are just too high now, Allie. You’ve just never had _any_ restraint around Harry Bingham.”

She stands up. “Fine,” she snaps. “I’m going to go watch this fucking movie then — might as well act like the pure, innocent virgin you want me to be.”

When neither of them so much as move, she finds Bean among the girls and starts walking over. “Turn on the subtitles!” Allie nearly shouts. By the time Allie makes it over, Bean is already fiddling with the remote. Allie curls up on Bean’s massive pillow, looking up at the screen as Princess Ariel looks down at Prince Eric, whom she just saved from drowning. Bean puts a bowl of buttered popcorn in front of her, and then leans in closer to her, until they’re touching. Allie sighs, feeling like they might be back in Scotland, crashing in one of their dorm rooms between classes. But they’re older now.

Everything is harder now.

* * *

She and Bean make their way to the kitchen, laughing, with Elle trailing behind them, in a quest to find more popcorn and snacks before the other princesses revolt. “It’s fun, isn’t it?” Bean asks, shoving her in the shoulder. “Come on — admit it. You’re having more fun than you thought you would.”

Allie smiles. She certainly wouldn’t go far enough to say she’s having _fun_. Especially since Grizz and Sam have long-since disappeared — they didn’t say where they were going, but Allie could venture a few guesses. However, she knows that Bean has worked hard on everything, and Allie knows there’s nothing to be gained from disappointing her. “It’s fun,” she agrees simply.

She just never would’ve expected — or wanted — this. Watching Disney movies really isn’t her favorite activity, and the fact that they seem to be steadfastly sticking to the Princess ones is just adding salt to her wounds. The level of happiness in them has never felt so unattainable. The idea of marriage being the _happily ever after_ rather than just another political strategy. Her world has shifted so much in the last three weeks that she can’t even imagine it, and then she feels dumb for taking it so personally. 

“You’ll have to try your wedding dress on for me tomorrow,” Bean says. “Helena said it should be done.”

Allie stops dead in her tracks. Bean walks a couple feet away before turning around, her smile faltering for just a second, until it’s bright and cheerful again. Suddenly Allie wonders how much of this whole night is just Bean putting on a front to make Allie feel normal about all of this.

“Lots of lace, she said,” Bean adds, walking back to loop her arm through Allie’s. She tugs at Allie’s arm until Allie starts following her dutifully. Suddenly it feels like Bean is directing her in a play, and Allie knows it would be smartest to follow her implicit instructions.

“Yeah,” Allie says hollowly.

“I suppose a princess can’t get married without lace — though Princess Ariel’s dress was, like, a silk monstrosity—”

They finally enter the kitchen, and at first Allie just sees the table full of snacks clearly meant for them — popcorn and chocolates and a massive pink cake. “Nice!” Bean exclaims, and Allie nods. It’s only when she hears the sound metal slamming down that she even looks up. And there he is, right where she never could’ve expected him to be.

“ _Harry_?” she asks, mouth open. Happiness burns through her, fast and furious — she hasn’t realized she felt nauseous with pain until just the sight of Harry flushes it away. It’s like this whole, horrible party was a penance she had to pay just to see his face. And then she’s grinning, a wide, massive grin, the happiness in her so big that it eclipses everything else — the wedding planning, the wedding dress, all those screaming girls acting like they’re celebrating her, and the lectures she keeps getting from Sam and Grizz.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she asks, laughter in her voice. She wanders over to him, leaning against the wide island in between them.

Harry looks so out of place and yet so very right, just standing there, a metal bowl in front of him that he must’ve just dropped onto the counter. He’s smiling, too. “Baking,” he says, a dream-like quality to his voice.

“Is this why I haven’t seen you?” Suddenly the question feels burningly important.

“No,” he says, his tone more normal but still pleasant. “You’ve been too busy, like, healing the sick.”

“Well, you know, we have staff. That cooks and bakes.” She didn’t mean to say _we_ like that. It calls to her mind that inconvenient fact that he’s trying to steal her throne, but that doesn’t sit with her very long. There’s a vague suspicion in the back of her mind, but she isn’t quite ready to do anything with it yet. What it does bring to her mind, a second later but in a way that sticks, is that _we_ makes it sounds like he lives here, too — and more than just temporarily.

She looks back at Elle and Bean, standing steadfast near the table meant for them, looking at her with perfectly mirrored judgmental faces. Allie knows she should deal with it, but — as always — the pull of staying with Harry is too strong. Especially compared to that kids’ party. She can’t even imagine sitting through the end of _Sleeping Beauty_ , now that she has another option. “You guys can go back without me. I’ll be there in a minute.” Elle’s frown deepens, and Bean rolls her eyes. “Please,” Allie adds, quietly but firmly, and finally, Elle nods. She shoots one last glare at Harry, then the two of them leave.

Allie turns back to Harry, whose eyebrows are raised. Too late, she wonders if he wants to be alone, but then decides not to care. He’s never been very considerate of her time, either. She circles the island and then hops up onto the counter, a couple feet away from all his bowls and pans and utensils. He looks up at her, and she swings her legs back and forth, giddy all of a sudden, feeling like she’s been freed from purgatory.

“Bachelorette party?” he asks, but his tone is sour now — and his expression is, too. He’s staring at her shirt, and she flushes as she looks down, the hot pink _BRIDE_ greeting her with all the subtly of a freight train.

“Yeah,” she says. She shifts her body, suddenly uncomfortable down to her bones.

His right hand goes to his left little finger, and she’s seen him do that often enough that she knows he’s trying to spin his signet ring around and around. But he must’ve taken it off to bake, because his eyes go to the counter. She follows his gaze, and — just as he starts to reach for it — she claps her hand over it, like a childish game. Suddenly they’re both laughing, and Allie tries to put the ring on her own little finger. It’s too big, so she moves it over a finger, where it fits perfectly.

_HBW_ — the monogram on the ring the exact same script as on the handkerchief he gave her. She spins the ring around her finger, and there is something strangely comforting about it. She can see why he does it. She wishes she could see into him this easily for everything else, too.

“Harry Winwood Bingham,” she says out loud.

He snorts.

“I like it,” she says.

“The ring or the name?”

“The ring — well, I mean, _both_ , but the ring. It suits you.”

His face is turning pink. “It looks good on you, too.”

She can feel herself blushing, too, and for a second she just _hates_ them both. They’re supposed to be older now — real adults, vying to literally _run a country_ — but together, they’re still teenagers. “And why, if I can ask again, are you _baking_?”

“Because I like baking,” he says, and strangely, that is enough of a reason. She can’t remember the last time she did something just to do it — just because she liked doing it.

_Kissing him_.

That might be it. 

She tugs the sleeves of her sweatshirt over her hands, covering both the rings on her fingers. She watches, more enthralled than she should be, as he spoons batter into ramekins. He does look at home here — maybe more than she’s ever seen him. He looks laser-focused instead of indolent; wide-eyed with interest instead of like a kicked puppy.

“I’m glad I made enough for two,” he says.

“Me, too.” She doesn’t know what he’s making, but it’s such dark chocolate that it’s almost black. He puts the two ramekins on a sheet pan and walks over to slide it into the oven. He has the practiced ease of a chef. This clearly isn’t his first time even in _this_ kitchen.

“Did your dad teach you how to do this?” she finally asks.

“No. It’s just me.”

He starts gathering his dishes and splitting them between the sink and the dishwasher, apparently knowing even enough to know what’s dishwasher-safe and what isn’t. Then Allie understands — maybe this is the only thing that he’s taught himself. “It suits you,” she says again, and it does.

He’s blushing again when he turns back around. “It’s nothing.”

“What else are you secretly good at?”

His eyebrows lift as he smirks, and she knows that surely he’s thinking something inappropriate. Instead of elaborating on that, though, he just says, “I’m okay at cards. Sometimes.” He flushes again, and Allie wonders why he’s embarrassed.

“With Campbell?” she asks, trying not to frown as she thinks about how often she’s seen them together since she got back.

“Yeah, um, sometimes.” Then, abruptly changing the subject: “So — I’ve heard about all the work you’ve been doing on the hospital. It sounds like you’re doing an amazing job.”

“Thanks,” she says, flattered in spite of herself.

“It’s really important, what you’re doing.” His mouth is open as though he has more to say, but he doesn’t.

“Yeah,” she says softly, smiling at him; the compliment feels particularly warm, after their interaction last week.

“I’m really glad you came back,” he says quietly. “You know, in spite of everything.”

She wants to feel annoyed. After all, he’s the one causing that _everything_. But, somehow, she isn’t. The feeling, like so much else, flows between them until they’re the same. Until she feels glad she came back, too, if fate was kind enough to lead her here.

He stands next to her, leaning against the counter. He’s so close to her now that she could easily reach out and wrap her arms around his shoulders. “Why are you hiding in here?” he asks, facing forward so she can’t see the look on his face.

“Why are _you_?” she shoots back without thinking. Attacking him is easier than confronting herself.

“Princess,” he says softly.

“What’s there to celebrate?” she asks, unable to keep the bitter edge from her voice.

He nods, again and again. She reaches forward and ruffles his curls — she doesn’t know why she does it, except that she wants to so badly that even the thought of self-control has become irrelevant. His hair feels like silk against her fingertips, and just touching him makes her feel calmer. He half-turns towards her, so she can see his profile. A hint of a smile on his face, and he leans his head into her touch. She has a sudden, almost violent urge to pull him to her and kiss him.

But she hasn’t quite reached that level of insanity.

“It’s just, like, Disney movies and popcorn,” she says softly, bringing her hand back to her lap. “Sam wouldn’t even let me _drink_.”

He snorts. “Some bachelorette party.”

“Right?” she says. Looking down at her hands, she sees his signet ring still on her finger, and she spins it around again, just like he does. He’s looking at her, now — he’s turned to the side on the counter, so that his hip is nearly touching her knee.

“There’s nothing else you’d rather do than your party?” he asks softly, looking up at her.

Her throat goes dry. She doesn’t know if he’s still just playing with her or if he’s serious. Both, probably; they aren’t mutually exclusive. The way she always wants him to go away and wants him here with her. Being near him is torture, but she’s too selfish to not want him with her — not when he fills her with this calm, beneath all the fury. It’s impossible to deny that she _adores_ him. Sometimes it’s insane and infuriating, but it’s hard to remember any of those negative emotions when — like right now — she cares for him in that lovely, delicate way that fills her so deeply with warmth that it’s like he’s healing her scars from the inside out. Getting to see him looking like this — soft and smiling and at peace — feels like a special kind of miracle. The once-in-a-lifetime kind.

_Oh_ , she thinks, her brain screeching to a halt.

Of course.

She _loves_ him.

He’s looking at her, brown eyes wide, that special smile just for her still on his face. It’s the mark she’s left on him, and it’s one she’s proud of — to have turned his beauty into even greater beauty. He’s so beautiful that she doesn’t know what she ever could’ve done to deserve even to look at him. And he’s _more_ than that — so precious to her that she doesn’t know what to do. Today or tomorrow or six days from now.

It’s strange to be in love. She doesn’t think she’s ever been in love before. As soon as she wonders, she _knows_. She has been in love before. Because Harry is old and new and _Harry_. Any love she’s ever felt, over and over again, has been for him. Maybe that time when she was fifteen, she loved him. Maybe when she saw him at that Cambridge party, she loved him. Maybe it beat inside of her like a heartbeat, but it’s only now that she’s aware of it. Sometimes loud and strong and sometimes just a faint echo. But it’s been there and it’s here now and she _loves_ him.

Maybe he’s all there has ever been, for her.

And she’s marrying someone else.

She lets out a laugh; she doesn’t mean to, and then it’s out there and it sounds horrible, like an old witch in one of those movies she’s missing. Harry looks at her, startled — for once, their conversation had been pleasant. His confusion turns to concern, and she feels her chest tighten with loving him.

There’s a faint beeping noise that immediately turns more urgent, and Harry pushes off from counter. “I guess I’d like to eat some cake,” she finally answers.

“Sure,” Harry agrees, sounding confused but unwilling to broach the subject. He pulls the ramekins out of the oven and sets them on the counter. After a quick trip to the freezer for vanilla ice cream, he unmolds one of them onto a plate. He puts a scoop of ice cream next to it, and then hands her a spoon. She leans over to get a spoonful, watching chocolate spill out of the center of the cake. Chocolate lava cake.

“Maybe you missed your calling,” she says, after a first delicious bite.

He’s grinning widely, just looking at her face. He takes a bite, too. “Maybe,” he says.

_Maybe we both did_ , Allie thinks, reaching for more.

“It’s time for karaoke,” someone says abruptly, and Allie and Harry look over, shocked. There’s Bean, her arms across her chest, glaring at Allie disapprovingly. Allie has never seen that expression leveled at her, and she immediately feels like a scolded child.

She looks at Harry, and some sort of understanding passes between them — they both know she would rather stay here. She would rather choose Harry — in more decisions than one. But he doesn’t protest as she jumps down from the counter. She touches his arm, just for one electric second, and then follows Bean to the door.

“See you, Harry,” she says, turning to get one last look at him. He’s leaning over, his elbows on the counter, his chin in his hands. Like just standing is too much.

“Congratulations,” Harry says, his tone teetering on the edge of the knife between sarcasm and bitterness.

She realizes, nearly out the door, that she still has his ring on her finger, so she immediately doubles back. By the time she gets back to the kitchen island, she has the ring off. She extends it to him, all the way across the counter, holding it so that the flat part of the ring is facing up.

He takes it slowly, his hand brushing against hers, and she feels a shiver down her spine. She can feel the words rising to her lips, even as she knows she would never say it: _I love you_. But even thinking it while looking at him is enough, and she feels herself blush. She’s too far gone. He looks at her, his head tilting to the side, one corner of his mouth pulling up in a smile.

“ _Allie_ ,” Bean nearly shrieks.

Allie turns around and follows Bean out, not looking back this time. She knows that if she does, she won’t be able to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! An early chapter! I'm hoping to start updating about every week now. 
> 
> As always, thank you to my beta/best friend Hannah (emmadecody)!
> 
> Chapter title from Fun by Selena Gomez.


	10. set fire to my purpose, and I let it burn

Campbell’s manor really isn’t much bigger than Harry’s own, but there’s something formidable about it just the same. It’s like it draws the light in from around it and makes the whole world dimmer. Harry knows that can’t possibly be true, but he always feels a sense of dread walking in here, and it’s never been worse than today.

He’s led through the winding house until he is shown into Campbell’s library. It’s a massive, dark room that makes Harry’s father’s library look bright and cheerful. Campbell is sitting on a leather couch, and he looks up as though Harry’s unannounced visit is the most expected thing in the world. “Harry,” he says with a grin, standing up.

In another couple of minutes, Harry has been placed onto the leather chair across from Campbell, been offered and refused a cigar, and had a glass of whiskey put into his hand. Campbell seems delighted by his presence, suspicious enough already to Harry, who knows he’s not the ideal company for anyone, even under the best circumstances.

Then Campbell sits back down, swirling his own refreshed whiskey glass around, the ice cube clinking against the sides of the glass. Harry suddenly feels like he’s in a scene from a movie — too dumb to even be aware that he’s already in the midst of his doom. He reflexively grips his glass a little harder, trying not to let anything show in his expression. 

“So what do you have to say, Harry?” Campbell asks.

“Well, it’s about the Princess.”

“I guessed,” he says with a chuckle.

“Well, um, the thing is—” he starts, then immediately stops. He sets his glass down and takes a deep breath. He practiced this a thousand times on the drive over here, but — of course — it all got lost somewhere along the line in the recesses of his jumbled brain. Maybe he was never meant for change. “She’s smart, right? Like, smarter than me. And she really cares about Westham — why else would she be marrying—” he breaks off, trying to prevent his brain from pulling up the image of Allie and the Duke _together_. “I just think she should be queen,” he finishes inadequately, his voice too loud, already frustrated at himself.

Campbell’s smile has faded, and he takes a long drink of whiskey. “Are you insane?” he asks conversationally, expression disconcertingly blank.

Harry follows suit, draining the whiskey from his glass before setting it back onto the table next to him. The familiar burn in his stomach is strangely fortifying, and he says in a tone so rational it surprises even himself, “She loves this country enough that she’s convinced herself to marry a man she can never love.”

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” Campbell says, his voice deadly serious. But then — just a second later — he’s laughing in that usual, seemingly delighted way that he has. “Harry, you want _her_ to get everything? After all the effort we put in — to end up with _nothing_?”

“It wouldn’t be _nothing_ ,” Harry says quickly, jumping off his chair. He walks over to the fireplace and leans against it, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Westham would be in good hands, and—” He breaks off again, imagining her — bright and glowing, like she’s always deserved to be. The way she would’ve been, if he hadn’t come in here and tainted everything. “I mean, she’s your _cousin_. And she would be _happy_.”

Campbell laughs then — for a long time. It just keeps going for so long that Harry is completely unnerved. “You’re in _love_ with her,” he says, a chuckle still in his tone. Those blue eyes seem to stare straight through Harry, and Harry has a feeling Campbell sees him more clearly than he can see himself.

“No,” Harry says quickly, rejecting the idea like a reflex, heart thudding in his chest. “ _No_ , Campbell.”

“No, Harry,” Campbell says, leaning forward on the couch, his elbows resting on his knees. His eyebrows knit together and his mouth twists into a frown; all the carefully constructed amiability fades until Harry realizes that he’s never seen Campbell like this — so blatantly poised to strike for the kill. “What exactly do you think will happen? That she’ll leave Kenilworth and marry you? You’re supposed to be _king_ , not marry a _queen_.”

He feels himself flush. Campbell says it like it’s the worst fate imaginable, but Harry can’t imagine anything better than being loved by her — and being deserving of that love. He also can’t imagine anything further from reality. “I know that won’t happen,” he says firmly, more to himself than Campbell. “I know she doesn’t feel that way about me.”

“But you—”

“All I want is for us to stop trying to _sabotage_ her,” he interrupts. “That’s all.”

“You know what this means,” Campbell says simply, leaning back on the couch and taking another drink of whiskey. Suddenly he’s spread out lazily, like this life-changing conversation was no more than a blip in his daily schedule.

Harry nods. “I can figure out my debts myself.”

Campbell grins, tilting his head back so that he’s looking at the ceiling. “Alright, then, Harry. Go ahead — tell her you surrender. If…” He pauses, looking hard at Harry again, his eyes narrowing. “If you think that’s best.”

Harry can’t help it — he grins. He knows that Campbell is still looking at him in a way that would turn his stomach, if it weren’t for Campbell’s acquiesence. His debts are certainly an issue, but that’s in the murky, unknown future; he has years to worry about it. And he chooses not to. For just one, golden second, he feels absolved of his sins.

For right now, he’s done one thing right.

He hadn’t known it was suffocating him until he feels like he can breathe for the first time in weeks.

* * *

“Come _on_ ,” Bean says from outside the door.

“Is there a problem?” Helena asks, voice genuinely concerned — though, probably more for her schedule rather than Allie’s wellbeing.

The doors of Allie’s massive walk-in closet are firmly closed. The dressmaker had been in there with her, helping adjust the fabric and the lacings, but Allie sent her away a couple minutes ago. Now she’s staring transfixed at the mirror.

She’s wearing her wedding dress. It’s pure, snowy white, every inch of it intricate lace. It hugs her down to her waist and then flairs out, making her look every bit of the princess she is. The expanse of her back is visible through the lace, and the sleeves go down to her wrists. Her long hair is up in a high ponytail, having refused to have her hair done today, much to Helena’s annoyance. But her blonde curls fall around her like a veil of their own, some strands sneaking in front of her eyes.

She really looks like a bride.

And feels like she’s going to throw up.

There’s tapping at her door, so soft but sharp that she has a feeling that someone is knocking with just her nails. “Your Highness?” Helena says. 

“One sec,” Allie calls.

She puts her hands on her hips, her back bowing as she tries to take a deep breath, but the air can’t seem to get into her lungs. _You have to do this_ , she tells herself, but that doesn’t help. _It’s just a fucking dress_ , she thinks, and that calms her enough to take a single, deep breath.

The castle already seems full. Every time Allie steps outside of her bedroom, she’s enveloped in wedding planning. And now that planning has invaded even her room. She’s always surrounded by a hoard of people — Grizz and Sam and Bean and Gordie and Will — but that just means the conversation is never more than a word away from going back to the wedding. She’s picked out place settings and tablecloths and flowers and candles and decorations. She and Will danced to different music options, their steps always just slightly out of sync as though they might not be hearing the same music.

She never means to think about Harry, but he always comes to her mind. She always knows which option he would choose. When she danced with Will, his hands felt wrong. There was nowhere she could look to see anything other than Will, and he was never once the person she wanted to see. She doesn’t mean to compare, but her mind screams out Harry’s name.

She straightens back up, trying to see herself objectively, but all she can see is a girl in a gorgeous wedding dress with the facial expression of someone going to a funeral. She plasters a fake smile onto her face and goes to the door. All eyes in the room are staring at her — it’s just Helena, Bean, Sam, and Grizz. She isn’t sure if technically Sam and Grizz should be here — Helena certainly doesn’t like it — but neither of them seem to want to leave her anymore than she does.

Helena gasps, the worry on her face transforming into a grin.

“You look _beautiful_ ,” Bean tells her. “Come out here.”

Allie walks out, her white dress trailing several feet behind her. Helena walks a wide circle around her, taking in every detail. “They did a great job,” Helena says, typing something on her omnipresent iPad.

Sam is smiling, but Grizz isn’t. “Do you like it?” Grizz asks.

“I like the dress,” she says, and it isn’t a lie.

Grizz stares at her for a long minute, and she stares back. Then she grins at him, and it’s painfully fake. She didn’t even know that smiling could take so much effort.

“You’re perfect,” Helena is saying. “ _Perfect_.”

* * *

With so many other factors working against her, Allie likes to think that her inability to shoot an arrow anywhere near the hoop — which she has to do for her coronation, with a flaming one, no less — will not be the final straw that keeps her from becoming queen. But it’s yet another thing on her very long list of worries.

She doesn’t understand why she’s so horrible at using a bow and arrow. She can ride side-saddle, she can hunt with the best of them, and she can play those boring British yard games all day if the occasion calls for it. And yet her hands are never steady like they should be, and no matter how hard she looks and concentrates and breathes carefully — exactly the right recipe for shooting a _rifle_ properly — her arrow always flies in another direction as though it has a mind of its own.

She shoots, and it lands two feet in front of the target. She groans as one of the maids uses a miniature fire extinguisher to keep the fire from spreading. She looks up at the clear blue sky. It’s a beautiful, crisp day — the kind of weather she loves. She’s wearing an oversized light pink sweater and jeans, wishing she could be wearing this outfit to watch movies or just hang out in. She misses indolence.

“Well, that’s enough flaming ones for now,” she says. When she finally gathers herself enough to look back at the rest of the world, she turns to Will, who’s examining the sleeve of his brown plaid jacket with visible distress. “Are you sure I didn’t burn you?” she asks him, trying to crane her neck to get a good look at the fabric.

“Of _course_ you did,” Bean says from the other side of Will. “Just _look_ at him.”

“No, no,” Will says, giving Allie a quick — and obviously forced — smile. “It’s very minor — just the sleeve.”

Allie knows she should probably be more concerned, but she’s already taken her bow and arrow back up. She decides not to overthink it this time, and takes the shot as soon as she’s in position — or what she _thinks_ is in position, anyway. Clearly it wasn’t, since the arrow goes flying no less than six feet off to the left. She drops her bow with a sigh.

And then she hears whistling.

Just a quiet, barely audible little tune. She turns back towards the path, and there he is. He meets her eyes, his lips still pursed as though to keep whistling, but he loses the tune when she smiles at him. The ghost of him has been haunting her all day, but it’s nothing compared to actually _seeing_ him. He grins back at her, looking strangely carefree like they’re children again. But he stays that careful distance away, and Allie looks back at Will and Bean, who are still looking at the jacket. “Is it _vintage_?” Bean is saying quietly.

Without even thinking, Allie grabs both their arms and starts walking them in the opposite direction. Neither of them looks particularly surprised. She doesn’t have time to wonder if she’s becoming just as chaotic as her father. “Will, why don’t you introduce Bean to your mother and stepfather before dinner? I’ll be up in a second. I just want to practice a couple more times. Really _concentrate_ , you know?”

They agree easily, neither of them predisposed towards suspicion, and by the time Allie turns back around, Harry is standing with her bow in his hand. There’s something different about him — his facial expression has smoothed out into relaxed lines. He looks just as beautiful as always, even more than usual in the fading afternoon light, his soft pale-grey sweater looking especially welcoming.

“Do you want some help?” he asks.

She shrugs, figuring it couldn’t possibly hurt. She grabs the bow from him and then takes her stance. It’s become a reflex by now — a battle position. He’s standing behind her, and she can hear him chuckling lightly.

“Elbow down,” he says softly, his voice practically in her ear, and she tries not to shudder from it. His hand rests on her elbow. His touch is something her body responds to like she has him memorized, and without even a conscious thought, her arm finds the right position with just his light touch.

“Use your mouth as an anchor.”

She can feel herself flush — there’s something absolutely unholy about him so much as saying the word _mouth._ “What?” she asks breathlessly.

He clears his throat, and she wishes she could turn around. “Touch your mouth. With your hand holding the arrow.”

She does as he says, and it does feel more stable. The hand that had been on her elbow now rests on her shoulder. For the first time in all of her lessons, she feels her body relaxing instead of tensing up. It doesn’t actually take that much muscle to do this, now that she isn’t fighting for her life.

With his other hand, he covers her hand holding the bow. “Relax this hand, too,” he says, his voice even closer now. “Now breathe in. And… release.”

She does it, watching in stunned awe as the arrow soars through the hoop. “Oh my fucking _God_ ,” she shrieks, dropping her bow and turning around. Without a thought, she throws her arms around him. It only takes her a second — he doesn’t even have time to wrap his arms around her — before she’s pulling back. They’re still so close to each other, and all that tension she just released from her body comes rushing back in. She doesn’t even have time to be consciously aware of leaning forward to kiss him until she has to stop herself from doing so.

She turns her head away, taking a step back from him.

“I, um, I have to go,” he says, looking down at his shoes. “I really only came back to pack my things.”

“You’re leaving?” she says, more surprised than she should be. She knows she should be relieved — he’s admitting defeat. He’s retreating. She won the war.

It doesn’t feel like a victory, though.

“I think it’s time I bowed out gracefully. Don’t you?” He finally looks back up at her, his brown eyes nothing but sad.

She nods, because she knows she should agree. There’s a palace full of guests for her wedding, seventy-two hours from now. There’s no other direction to go except away from him. They’ve stuck together like magnets, but it’s finally time for them to go their separate ways. No matter how much she doesn’t want to. “Well—” she starts, but can’t say anything else. She reaches out her hand, feeling dumb immediately — a _handshake,_ of all things.

He grabs her hand softly, and she doesn’t realize he’s going to kiss it until he’s already bending down. She’s frozen in place, feeling the heat flow from her cheeks all the way down her arm until his lips touch the back of her hand so gently it’s like a whisper. It shocks her, though, and the feeling of his lips on her skin brings back every memory she’s trying to shut out. Her whole body burns from wanting him to kiss her everywhere else, too. He straightens up, his own face just as red as hers, and he keeps holding her hand. He’s doing it so gently she knows she could pull away with no effort, but she has no interest in doing so.

“Princess,” he says softly, “could I — could I see you one more time? Before I go.”

She looks down at their hands, at the way their fingers have twined together so naturally she doesn’t even remember it happening. At first, she wonders if she’s ever held his hand like this, like an instinct, and then she knows she hasn’t — she’s sure that this quiet warmth is a new feeling. _I don’t really think that’s the best idea_ , she wants to say.

But she hears the word coming out of her mouth before she really has a chance to consider: “Yes.”

Because she can’t just leave this thing where it is right now. She can’t have this be the last time she sees him before he’s in the audience of her wedding, relegated to just being a face in the crowd, for that moment and for the rest of her life. His answering smile, the way his eyes crinkle just for her and only for her, makes her feel secure in her decision — and more than just secure, but warm and happy and excited, just for him. Only for him.

“But, Harry — it’s just that _everyone_ is here. I’m watched like a _hawk_.” She glances over her shoulder, and sure enough, there’s Elle, looking at her disapprovingly.

“I can figure it out, Princess.” He squeezes her fingers, and he looks so earnest she thinks she might melt. She knows he’s far from the most competent person out there, but she can’t help but believe him. He wants this every bit as much as she does.

She gently tugs her hand from his. “I look forward to it,” she whispers, leaning into him, pressing her hand onto his shoulder, returning the favor from earlier. Just like she did, he blushes. She straightens, and he seems just as flustered as she is. He runs a hand through his curls, and she’s stunned all over again by that alone.

_Just one more time_ , she thinks; she knows it’s a lie, but she doesn’t care. _Just one more time, and then I can quit him_.

* * *

“Allie — Allie,” Grizz says frantically, throwing open the door of her bedroom completely unannounced. Both Sam and Bean are there, too, so it isn’t as though his presence would be surprising, if it weren’t for the uncharacteristic urgency in his voice.

“Remember a month ago when you couldn’t even say my first name, and now you, like, live here?” Allie asks conversationally, but stands up willingly enough as Grizz pulls at her arm. “ _What_?” she asks, laughing.

“You have to look out your window.”

“I know I have the best view of the pear tree in the Palace but—” Allie jokes, letting him pull her to the window. She looks down, not having thought to expect anything, but there he is in the inky night, just enough light coming from the Palace windows to see just the faint outline of him. Somehow she isn’t even surprised, instead is just as giddy as always at the sight of him.

“Harry!” she exclaims, and he looks up, his pale face more visible turned upward, angelic in the darkness. She hears Sam groan behind her, but she doesn’t look back, just leaning further out her window. She wishes she din’t have an audience — even if they’re all her friends — but she can’t help but ignore them. The night is cold, but the pull to be even inches closer to him is much stronger than any other feeling. “Harry, what are you doing here?”

“Will you run away with me?” he calls, grinning widely. He outspreads his arms, like they really do have the whole world at their disposal.

She grins, too, unable to stop herself from being swept away. She looks down the side of the palace and sees a vine-covered trellis that covers the two stories of wall between them. Turning back to him, she raises her eyebrows. “This was your big plan? Seems like I’ll have to do all the work.”

“I can catch you if you fall.” He smiles like it’s a real offering, and she’s formulating her response when someone grabs the shoulder of her sweater and tugs her back inside.

She turns around. Grizz’s facial expression looks absolutely blank, while Bean is rolling her eyes. And there’s Sam frowning, his hands flying once she makes eye contact with him. “What does he want?” Sam asks. Behind her, Allie notices Bean briefly looking out the window before walking back to Allie’s side. Grizz is standing silently next to Sam.

“He wants — he wants me to go with him,” Allie says, a bit of her giddiness fading at their grim expressions.

“Are you going to?” Sam asks.

“Do you _want_ to?” Bean clarifies, signing too.

All three of them look at her, and she takes a step away from them, her breath tight and claustrophobic just from the intensity of their stares — they feel like a wall in front of her. “Yes,” she finally says, not sure which of them she’s answering. With Harry, her line between _wanting_ and _doing_ has always been nearly nonexistent.

“This is _insane_ ,” Sam says, taking a few steps away from her like he can’t even be near her. “Can you think about this for, like, one second?”

“It’s certainly not _wise_ ,” Bean adds.

“Allie,” Grizz sighs, and the three of them turn towards him. He takes a step towards her. “You really want to go?”

“Of course I do,” she says, unable to keep the annoyance out of her tone. She knows that she’s the one acting insane, but she wishes that — just once – they would see Harry’s merits like she does. That they could imagine, if only for a second, that he’s worth the risk.

“So _what_?” Sam asks, clearly frustrated.

“I’m not telling her to _fuck_ him, but I mean—” Grizz breaks off, shrugging. “She had a bachelorette party with, like, Disney movies. She was basically _babysitting_.”

“Hey!” Bean says, clearly offended.

“This is a terrible idea, Allie,” Sam says, looking back at her. “Seriously. It’s like you’re a fucking drug addict and keep relapsing.”

She tries, just for a second, to see this like they do. But she has her whole life to only care about the throne and Will and other people’s opinions. She feels like her old self again, sweeping all their concerns under the rug. She just smiles at them. “I _am_ going,” she says simply, lifting her shoulders in a shrug. Her decision was already made, hours ago, and the sight of him hasn’t made her anything except _more_ excited. “I just need you guys to agree not to tell Elle — or anyone.”

Sam frowns, all the lines in his forehead visible in his disproval. She knows that Grizz and Bean will go along with whatever Sam says — he has precedence, as her cousin. “I don’t like this,” he signs.

“You don’t have to.” She doesn’t speak out loud anymore, now that the conversation is really just for the two of them.

“You’ll be careful?”

“Yes.”

“And you won’t get caught?”

Allie lets out a grim laugh. “I certainly hope not.”

“I think you’re being really fucking dumb.”

“I know.”

He nods, and she nods. She thinks, for once, he might understand. “Then go,” he signs, and then waves his hand dismissively.

She throws her arms around him. After a second, he hugs her back. For just a second, they’re back on their extended vacation, traveling the world with just each other. Life certainly was simpler then.

Just a couple minutes later, she throws a blanket outside the window, where it lands near Harry. She starts climbing out the window, with just one last look at Harry’s concerned face. He hovers underneath her, but Grizz is grabbing her hand firmly from the window.

“Does it feel stable?” Grizz asks softly.

“Yes.”

“Be careful, Allie,” Grizz says as she lets go — and she knows he’s not just referring to the climb, but the whole night.

She climbs down slowly and deliberately, only missing a step when she’s almost to the bottom, Harry’s hands on her waist stabilizing her before she even has time to feel frightened. She drops down the last couple feet, and spins around into his arms, giving him a brief, warm hug. She’s desperate for him, and he grabs her hand.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Yes,” she says, grinning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I wrote a Hallie actor AU oneshot since the last chapter if you want to check it out!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26343886)
> 
> As always, thank you to my beta/best friend Hannah (emmadecody)!
> 
> Chapter title from Lose You to Love Me by Selena Gomez.


	11. I turn every chair that you sit in into a throne

They’re sitting on the pink plaid blanket Allie had thrown at him, now laid out and nestled under a tree.

They rode here; the only plan Harry had was bringing horses from the stables. He had never ridden with Allie before, and he was surprised by how fun it was — though everything with Allie was fun. They rode on and on, nearly to the very edge of the castle grounds, and he could’ve kept going forever. But he had found this place a week before — and it was absolutely idyllic, with a lake that the moon reflected off of, giving the whole area a warm, romantic glow. Even before he had a ghost of this idea, he saw Allie here, the way he saw her everywhere. Like she could’ve fit effortlessly into every part of his life, if he’d just done everything better.

Somehow they’d started a thumb war, probably because they wanted to touch each other, but there were too many barriers between them now — desire and action picked apart for so long that it seemed impossible to reconcile them now. This is safe enough. Her hand is warm in his, and she looks so comfortable here. She’s wearing pink leggings and an oversized grey sweater, sitting cross-legged with her knees bumped against his. He drapes his other arm over her leg, unable to keep himself from touching her with both hands.

This might be his last chance.

“Tell me your desires,” he says, just wanting to know what’s in her head. Just for once, especially when she has that smile on her face.

She looks up at him, holding his gaze long enough for him to blush. _Yes, you are all of my desires_ , his brain responds to her look. Then she says, “Tell _me_ a secret.”

He grins — he’s barely _stopped_ grinning since she climbed out of that window, since she put her hand in his. “What’s the difference?” he asks lightly.

“Anyone can see your desires.” Is he imagining it, or does she look at him in a particularly pointed way? It’s like she’s staring straight through him until she sees that he wants to be with her so badly it might as well be killing him. “But no one knows a secret.”

“Ah,” he says, still discomposed, looking back down at their thumb war. Her thumb goes back onto his, but he slides away. He tries to think of something — anything — about himself that isn’t as obvious as an open book. “Did you like those rose meringues?” he finally asks.

“You made those?” she asks, her hand tightening in his.

He tries and fails not to grin up at her. “Who did you think made them?”

She looks stunned, shifting her body so their legs bump together again. “Not _you_.”

“But who?” he presses.

“I thought… _he_ bought them.”

She doesn’t say Will’s name, and it feels like that’s its own secret — like she’s admitting that he’s so unimportant that he doesn’t even need a name. But if that were true, Harry doesn’t know why he still feels himself cut open at even the suggestion of him, why he has to put all his willpower into holding his expression neutral. Allie just stares at him, and Harry fights that war inside of himself — he wants to _leave_ , to _run away_. But he can’t, not when he and Allie are both here. Finally.

“Ah,” he says again, wishing he hadn’t asked.

“They were delicious.” Her voice is warm now. She had looked so guarded just a second ago, but not anymore. There was a whisper of reality, and now it’s gone. She puts her thumb over his and starts to press down, but he slides away from her again with a laugh. He looks back up at her, and the smile on her face feels like it absolves him of his sins.

“Was that enough of a secret for you?” he asks softly.

“I’ve got another for you,” she says, and then she’s smirking, an almost maniacal look coming over her. “When did you lose your virginity?”

He looks up, eyes wide. If he had thought to predict her words, this never would’ve been it. Her thumb presses over his, but this time he doesn’t even care that he lost. His instinct is to lie — he hadn’t known he wanted it to be a secret from her, until now. But when he looks at her, and he knows that somehow she knows. “When I was fifteen,” he finally says.

She nods slowly, still smirking. He just meets her eyes, but he knows a blush is creeping over his face. 

“So _what_?” he finally asks, giving up all pretense of vagueness. He doesn’t know why it’s so embarrassing, but for some reason it _is_. He’s always belonged to her, in this one way, and maybe he had never expected her to realize there was just one more string that connected them. He’s already so wrapped up in her.

She laughs as though it’s the most delightful thing she’s ever heard. “I never _knew_. And here I was, telling Sam how _bad_ you were.”

He flushes even redder. He turns that over in his mind, wishing for just a second he could see that night in her perspective instead of his own. It had been magical — he can’t think of it as anything else. He wishes, of course, that he could’ve given her a night that she could never have told her cousin was _bad_. But he can only remember the two of them as happy. He doesn’t think he’s ever had so much _fun_ since then. “Jesus fucking _Christ_ , Princess,” he says, “You could’ve assumed. I was only _fifteen_.”

“Why would I assume that?”

“Why _wouldn’t_ you?”

She looks at him for a second, and then she says, “Well, you’re just so beautiful. It never even crossed my mind.”

“Beautiful, huh?” he asks. Looking at her, her long gold hair draped over one shoulder, the night making her skin look even paler, her blue eyes sparkling from the moonlight on the water. He’s never in his life seen anyone more beautiful than she is. It seems strange to apply that word to anyone else, let alone himself.

* * *

Allie nods, her head tilting. _Beautiful_ — it’s always been the only word for him. So unbelievably beautiful. She wishes she could draw, so that she could learn every sloping line of him in two dimensions as well as three. The one curl that’s always falling into his eyes, his long eyelashes, the way his grin always looks half-formed as if in surprise. Instead she just has to hold it all inside of her, as if her body is enough to contain it. Maybe if she could get it out of her, she wouldn’t want him the way she does.

Yeah, right.

“But you — you’re the beautiful one,” he says, and she thinks it’s the first time he’s ever said it out loud — since they were young, anyway. Even though it’s nowhere near the first time someone has said she’s beautiful — or any number of other similar adjectives — it’s _different_ coming from him. She can feel her face warm up as she stares at him, at his dark curls even darker than the night sky. He might think she’s beautiful, but she knows she’s got nothing on him. Harry has the kind of beauty that you write poetry about, that you try to capture even one fleeting moment on camera. Just the magic of a single moment can eclipse anyone else. Especially right now — his smile brighter than ever in the darkness. It feels like she’s seeing it for the first time.

Then his smile fades. “If it was so horrible for you — is that why — at Cambridge—?”

“No,” she says immediately, not even taking the time to choose her words with care — just wanting to reassure him. “It _wasn’t_ horrible, Harry. And, no, I just — I don’t know.”

“I don’t mean — obviously, it’s not like I _expected—_ ”

“I wanted you _too much_ ,” she admits, knowing that probably won’t make sense to someone who seems to have very little self-control. Not that she’s one to talk — even now, her mind is screaming, _I still want you too much_. She folds her other hand over both of theirs, giving up all pretense of their thumb war. She considers, just for a second, leaning forward into him. He’s _so close_ , and she’s so certain that he wants this every bit as much as she does. It’s like her entire body is aching for him, like she’s had this ache since the first time, and being near him makes it better and impossibly worse.

She shouldn’t, but it flashes before her eyes — her kissing him, her on top of him, the way everything would spiral without even needing a thought. It’s been so many years, but it would be different now, easy like breathing and fun like before and so unbelievably _good_ like everything else has just been practice for this.

He tilts his head at her, and she tries to think of something — anything — to cool herself down. It shouldn’t be the herculean task it is on such a cold night. “Besides,” she finally says, “weren’t you, like, dating Kelly?” She doesn’t mean for it to sound so pointed, but it comes out almost combative — she hadn’t known how much anger she was still holding onto.

To her surprise, he just rolls his eyes. He moves his hands so their fingers thread together. “She and I never _dated_.”

All the implications of his emphasis on the word do nothing to stop the bitter edge of jealousy rising up in her. “Super,” she says sarcastically, as though she’s not the one engaged to be married to a very different man than the one in front of her.

“Excuse me,” he says, laughter in his voice, “do you know how many tabloids I had to read about you sleeping with, like, every guy who looks like that dude from _Outlander_?”

She snorts. “You’re, like, way hotter than all of them,” she says, again without thinking.

He pulls one of his hands from hers and buries his face into it. Even in the darkness, she can see how red his skin is. She giggles. “You know,” she says, and he finally uncovers his face. His hand goes back to her thigh, and it’s instinct that has her trying to shift closer to him. “You know,” she starts again, a little flustered now, “you’ve never really told me about Cambridge.”

“ _You’ve_ never really told me about St. Andrews.”

She leans in closer to him, just to see him flush again. “So tell me everything,” she says, dying to hear him talk. She doesn’t know why, but she just wants to hear everything. Even if she can’t connect a couple final pieces of the puzzle, she _can_ do this.

And he does. He talks — about his friends, the parties, the drinking, the loneliness. Even if it isn’t always pleasant, she loves to hear him talk, the way his voice rises and falls. At some point they lie down, exhausted now. And she encourages him to keep going. When he gets to something uncomfortable, he looks down at their hands. He talks about his father, holding her hand between his like he might be about to read her palm. It would be almost funny, if it weren’t so sad.

And she talks too — about her friends, so much better and more lasting than his, and the parties and the drinking and the paparazzi. How much she never wanted this; she knows she shouldn’t tell him that, she knows it could be ammunition, but it’s true and she _wants_ to tell him. She talks about the vague recollection of her mother. She tells him about Cassandra’s funeral, about Grizz helping her run away, about Sam keeping her company.

She didn’t know she was capable of loving him this much, but she does. She doesn’t think she would believe she’s capable of it, if she weren’t feeling it right this second. Every time she thinks she can’t love him more, her heart expands with him.

“Sometimes I feel like I’m surrounded by _good_ people,” she says slowly, figuring out what she wants to say aloud, “like I can only really be myself with you.”

He laughs. “I feel like I should be insulted.”

She laughs, too. “Harry,” she says, and she doesn’t know why she feels compelled to say it, now of all times, “can you just tell me why you’re doing this?”

She looks over in time to see him cringe, and she knows he understands. She just waits, but all he eventually says is, “I shouldn’t have.”

“But why did you?” Her tone is even. She’s really not even mad — especially now that he’s given up. She just wishes she could understand, not just because the scars of his betrayal still fester, but because she feels like she knows everything else about him. Does she really know him — her whole lifetime of knowing — if she lacks this one essential piece?

When he still doesn’t say anything, she presses, “Was it Campbell?”

“No,” he says slowly, but she can see the lie all over him. “I’ve made a lot of choices, Princess. Hardly any of them have been the right ones.”

That’s all he says, but that’s enough for her. “Can I tell you another secret?” she says, sitting up again.

“I don’t think you’ve told me _any_ yet,” he jokes with a lift of his eyebrows.

“We haven’t danced in weeks.”

“Well, that’s just a _fact_ —”

“The secret is,” she interrupts, leaning down into him so she can whisper, “I’m _dying_ to.”

He gets up gracefully, holding his hand out to her. He’s smiling at her like she’s _home_ , and she feels the same way when she grabs onto his hand and lets herself be helped up. Instead of letting him pull her into a formal dance, she propels them back and back and _back_ to another time. She wraps her arms around his neck like they’re back at that Cambridge party. His hands go to her waist, and they sway slowly.

She buries her face into his shoulder, wanting to stay there forever. _I’m crazy about you_ , she wants to say back to him, like he said to her, four years ago at that party. She had pretended not to hear. Pretending has always been the easiest course of action. But she wraps her arms more tightly around him, wanting to feel the reality of him, here with her, however fleetingly.

She’s never thought much of the concept of soulmates, but she remembers hearing once that soulmates really are one soul that was split apart. And it’s hard to imagine any other word for her and Harry. She can barely feel where her body ends and his begins. Their thoughts, their desires, their secrets — every piece of them is just a piece of the other. She can feel him breathing at the same rhythm she is. There’s no music, but they both hear the same sounds in the silence that moves them.

She knows she’ll never find anyone she cares about more than him.

Maybe they really are one and the same, after all. 

* * *

He feels alive with her. Even in the dead of night, so tired he can barely hold her up, he’s never felt so alive. Maybe feeling alive should be a thing that’s barely noteworthy, and maybe it is, to most people. But not to him. He doesn’t always feel quite human, he doesn’t always feel alive, but she brings it out of him. Every emotion feels sharp with reality, pins pricking along his skin so that he knows he can feel both pain and joy. Good things and bad.

She’s only ever good.

Neither of them wanted to stop touching each other. When they finally stopped dancing, Harry felt like he was holding her up from exhaustion. They laid down, still wrapped in each other. The silence is comfortable. At first he doesn’t think either of them will say anything at all, but then she whispers groggily, “Harry, you… wouldn’t mind, would you? If I were queen?”

He looks down at her head resting on his chest. Her head is tilted upward so that he can see her eyes — wide and alert, if just for one second.

“Of _course_ not,” he says, almost laughing. He reaches forward like he can touch the sky, and gestures above them in a wide sweep. “This is your queendom.” He says it in all sincerity, moving his hand again like he can brush across the stars. Like everything, from the heavens to the two of them flat on earth, is hers.

And it _should_ all be hers.

He knows that she will be queen. Whether she deserves it or he deserves it, or whether or not they’ve both squandered opportunity after opportunity at every turn, it doesn’t matter. This is what she should be; there’s something innate in her far beyond her bloodline.

Even if something were to happen, he knows he could never be king while she’s there. His birthright would be a small price to pay for her happiness. After all, she’s always given him happiness, every time she’s near him — so much that it’s almost miraculous; he’s certainly far from predisposed towards that emotion.

Yes, he knows he’ll do everything within his meager power to stop hindering her. To _help_ her.

He knows, with overwhelming clarity, the feeling of this girl in his arms — soft and beautiful and the warmth of her breath on his chest and the weight of her body against his. Their lives have intersected so infrequently over the last decade, far less than should be imaginable for two people bound by country and nobility and even distant ancestors. But he’s had more than enough time to memorize her.

She has the whole world in front of her, overwhelming possibility stretched out before her. When she looks into the future, he’s sure she’s able to see things he can never imagine. Maybe she’s spent her whole life running, but this is where she is now, and he knows that once she’s set her mind to something, she can do anything. And so she will. For Westham. And he’ll be here, just an aristocrat, indistinguishable from the others. He isn’t stuck because of her, and not because of fate, either — but just because this is who he is. He’s never been destined for greatness. His life isn’t going anywhere fast.

Somehow, though, he wants it. He wants to watch _her_ greatness, even from far away. And he just wants the world to see her the way he does — the brightest light, viciously competent, with her incorruptible morality. They will get to know her, and they will accept her, and someday they will love her.

The way he loves her.

He _loves_ her.

He grew up knowing what beauty was from watching her grow up with him. He knew what a crush was when he first felt his heart skitter as though he had only just seen her for the first time. He knew what lust was when she pulled him out of that ballroom and kissed him — his first kiss quickly followed by his first _everything_. And now he knows this is love.

He wishes he could’ve figured it out years ago. Maybe he could’ve visited her at St. Andrew’s. Maybe he could’ve flirted with her more. Maybe, when all this rolled around, she wouldn’t have had to go to England to find someone eligible for her. As always, his hindsight is a thousand missed opportunities, a million what-if’s that could’ve brought him to a greater _now_. That won’t happen this time. For once in his life, he’ll do everything right. Only he could get something so simple so wrong.

The right thing has always been and always will be her.

And they fall asleep, just like that. It’s his first restful night of sleep in what felt like forever.

She’s still there when he wakes up, still breathing that careful, steady way that was unmistakably still asleep. He tries to resist pulling her even closer to him, barely able to believe in his sleep-addled brain that she’s still _here_. Their times together have always been cut short by one thing or another, but here they are. Still together.

She shifts in his arms, and he finally lets himself hold her more tightly. Instead of pulling away like he expects, she just wriggles closer, slinging a leg over his. For a second, he thinks she might kiss him, but she just pulls back and smiles at him. Her chin rests against his chest, her eyes on his.

“Good morning,” she says, smiling. Her voice is rough with sleep, and he almost wants to die from how cute he finds it. If she has any regrets about last night, she certainly doesn’t look it.

“Good morning, Princess.” With the hand not holding her, he pushes his hair back from his forehead.

“We stayed out all night.” She buries her face into his chest, but he can feel her laughing. He rubs his hand against her back.

“We certainly did.”

She braces her hands against his chest to push herself up. She sits, her leg is still over his, and she flips her blonde hair behind her back, running her fingers through it in some futile attempt to tame it. There’s something particularly golden about her, there in the warm morning glow. He’s not sure if she’s ever looked prettier.

Then she gasps, the sound especially disconcerting in the calm morning. He props himself up on his elbows, trying to follow her gaze where it’s laser-focused on the lake. He can’t particularly see anything, but she says, “Is that — is there a _man_ in that boat?”

He notices a small wooden boat, with what might be a hat visible somewhere in the middle. He just shrugs, as always too enthralled by Allie’s presence to put any thought into anything else. “A fisherman, I guess?”

She finally turns her wide blue eyes on him, her facial expression stony. It’s such a jarring shift that he scrambles up, too. “He has a fucking _video camera_ ,” she hisses.

“ _What_?” He understands her shock now, and he barely has time to glance back at the boat before she’s talking again.

“I cannot _believe_ you would do this, Harry.” She’s standing now, so full of fury it’s almost freezing him in place.

“I _didn’t_ ,” he says blankly.

She has her mouth open as though to yell at him, but then she takes a step back, the anger melting into disappointment. “You must’ve told someone.”

“ _No_ , I swear—”

“I can’t believe you, Harry. This was the only thing I wanted — and you had to do this—” Her eyes are shining with tears now, and he moves towards her, wanting to comfort her. But she takes a step back, like moving away from him is a reflex now. Standing still, he wonders hollowly if it can be that easy for their whole world to split apart.

“Princess,” he says, running a hand through his hair in frustration at himself.

“See you at the wedding, Harry,” she says, looking at him coldly. Then she turns around and gets on her horse, galloping away from him at full speed.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he says, turning back to the lake, seeing the camera clearly now. He wishes he could throw something at it, but instead he just looks at Allie still riding away in the distance. All the fight fades out of him; he’s lost every war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you to my beta/best friend Hannah (emmadecody)!
> 
> Chapter title from Crowded Room by Selena Gomez.


	12. every time your lips touch another, I want you to feel me

When Allie finally makes it back to her bedroom, everything is quiet. The heavy curtains are drawn over the windows, and the room is dark, even in the morning light. She takes a deep breath for what feels like the first time since she left the lake, and it comes out in a gasp. She hadn’t felt winded when she sprinted through the castle, but she feels it now. She leans over, hands braced against her knees, and just tries to breathe. It’s hard when she can still see his face in the darkness.

After a few gasping breaths, she looks up. At first, she thinks no one is in there, but then she sees two people in her bed. She almost groans at the sight of Sam and Grizz, cuddled up as one large mass in the middle of her bed. Even though it was less than an hour ago that she also woke up next to the person she’s in love with, seeing it now makes her stomach turn. This hadn’t really been what she meant when she said ‘cover for me.’

“Seriously?” she says to herself, about to go back the way she came — glad for any excuse to avoid their prying questions — but before she can do so much as turn around, the doors slam open. She whips around, seeing James, Helena, and Elle pour into her room. Helena makes a beeline for the TV as James comes walks straight to Allie, disapproval etched into his face.

Grizz startles awake in bed, sitting straight up like he’s woken up from a nightmare. “Dear God,” he whispers as he surveys them with bleary eyes. His long hair has half escaped from the messy bun still at the back of his head. He nudges the other mound in bed with him, and Allie can just see Sam’s head poking up.

Allie can tell Grizz is about to bolt out of bed, but James’s face turns absolutely radiant. “I _knew_ it,” he says, looking between Grizz and Sam triumphantly, not seeming at all startled.

“Yes, you’re so smart,” Allie says briskly, glad he’s at least momentarily distracted from her failures.

When Grizz starts to climb out of bed, James waves his hand dramatically. “Don’t bother, Grizz. We’re family now.”

“Sure,” Grizz says, his face completely red, and he seems to compromise by sitting back on the bed, on top of the blankets this time.

Allie lets out a huff, wondering why everyone has it so much easier than her. She walks over to the bed and climbs in without preamble, wedging herself right in the middle, between Grizz and Sam. She leans back onto her pillows, wishing she could sink into bed and go back to sleep. Forever, ideally.

It doesn’t feel comfortable or comforting like she expected it to be. They’re both too close, like Harry had been such a short time ago. But neither of them _are_ Harry, and she shoves at both their elbows until they give her a few more inches. Somehow, though, that doesn’t help, and she realizes that there are too many sounds around her.

“Night didn’t go so well?” Sam signs to her.

She just shakes her head with a frown, as Helena finally locates the remote and turns the TV onto the right channel. And there, from the TV, is Lexie Pemberton looking at the camera with a splitting grin on her face.

“And _here’s_ the royal exclusive I promised,” Lexie is saying. “As we all knew would happen, Princess Allie is already bringing her scandal back to Westham.” The screen cuts from Lexie’s face to the footage from this morning — Allie and Harry waking up. Allie and Harry talking. Allie’s head on his chest, the grins on their faces.

And then explosion. The fight, Allie storming off, Harry standing there after her.

She doesn’t even hear what Lexie is saying, it’s so surreal to see the two of them from the outside. She’s certainly been on camera before, but it’s never been as candid as this. She’s never before had to see herself going from buoyantly happy to furious. And she feels it all over again, just seeing the two of them _really_ looking like a couple. It manifests on her the way she feels inside when she’s with him — comfortable and perfectly matched and _happy_. She can feel her eyes tear up as they play the footage one more time. And she remembers waking up, her chin on his chest, the feeling of him breathing, like just the act of being near each other was a gift.

“Of course, the Duke of Kenilworth can’t be expected to put up with this insult,” Lexie says, because this isn’t a sacred, lovely moment anymore, but something splashed onto the news for ratings. “With the Princess’s wedding scheduled for _tomorrow_ , I think we’re all left wondering if there really will be a Royal Wedding after all. And, if not, will Viscount Bingham be our new King?”

Allie groans and buries her face in her hands. She wishes she could _scream_.

“Night _really_ didn’t go so well,” Grizz says.

“Allie,” James says firmly, and Allie reluctantly meets his eyes. He’s standing there, leaning against a chair with his arms crossed over his chest, looking more serious than she’s ever seen him. “You went off with Harry Bingham last night?”

Allie throws her arm out towards the TV, getting halfway out of bed just from the violence of the gesture. “Like, _obviously_.”

“You really—”

“Well, I didn’t think _that_ was going to happen,” she interrupts.

He nods. He turns around and exchanges a look with Helena, and then he turns back to Allie. When he talks, his tone is ice cold. “So, is there still a wedding?”

She looks at Grizz on one side, and then Sam on the other. Neither of them looks too sorry for her, but she can’t particularly blame them for that. She feels the mattress shift as they finally move. She sinks back onto the bed, alone now, wishing she could just see the future.

“I don’t know,” she whispers.

* * *

Helena and James ran off, talking about _damage control_. Grizz and Sam had left, too, Grizz looking like he needed a solid hour or two to recover from being caught in such a compromising position. Allie takes a shower, but it isn’t the miraculous transformation she hopes for; she still feels numb, just a bit warmer. When she’s done, she forces herself on her own mission.

By the time she finds Will, he’s in the foyer. He looks up at her, standing on top of the stairs, and she just sighs. That face that’s always been nothing but friendly and open and accommodating is closed and angry now, a frown etched into his face like it’s always been there and always _will_ be there. “Hey,” she says, quietly at first, but then he turns and walks away from her.

For just a second, she thinks about following her instincts and not going after him. She would much rather go back upstairs, shower a second time, and curl under all the blankets she can find. She wishes she could just sleep on it, as though everything might be clearer in the morning. But she’s out of time. Her wedding is tomorrow.

_Their_ wedding is tomorrow.

“Will,” she calls, this time flying down the stairs and out the front doors after him. He’s standing on the exterior staircase, looking out onto the grounds. When she makes eye contact with the guards, they walk down the stairs, giving Allie and Will at least the illusion of privacy.

“I’m so, _so_ sorry, Will,” she finally says, walking forward slowly, like he’s a wild animal that might be startled by any sudden movements.

But he just looks at her slowly, still frowning. “I just — I can’t believe this, Allie.” Somehow, the soft way he says it just makes it worse.

“Nothing _happened_ ,” she frantically tries to explain.

He turns to her, leaning against the railing, still looking at her with that cold disapproval. “But you went, didn’t you, Allie? You still _went_.” His voice breaks on the last word, finally exposing his anger.

“Yes,” she sighs. She takes a couple steps back and leans across the railing opposite him. She wraps her hands around the cool iron, gripping it too tightly.

“I don’t think you understand, Allie. I’ve spent my whole life — my whole life _losing_ to guys like Harry Bingham. Okay? I might be a duke but I was the only black aristocrat — until Meghan Markle. And I’ve just given you _so_ many opportunities to be honest with me. But I — but I still think this marriage is a _good idea_.”

She sighs again. “You do?” she asks, all the fight gone out of her.

“Allie,” he says, and then he’s stepping forward, closing the gap between them. She has plenty of warning, and yet she’s still shocked when he kisses her. For that first second, her mind flashes to Harry, all those wondrous times _Harry_ has kissed her. But the thought leaves her as quickly as it came, because this feels the polar opposite. Instead of melting into him, the way she’s so used to doing with Harry, her whole body stiffens. Her hands grip the iron stair railing so hard she feels like her fingers might snap off, and then she forces herself to put a hand on Will’s waist. His lips don’t feel right against hers — too firm, and she can feel his teeth in the _wrong_ way. His hands on her shoulders feel like restraints instead of an invitation for more. It’s like she’s suddenly forgotten how to kiss — she doesn’t know how to move or what to do, so she just stands there, trying to kiss him back, just to _test_ this. But she can feel her stomach turning at how very _not Harry_ it is. She hadn’t realized, until that moment, how much every piece of her belongs to him.

She feels nothing but relief when Will pulls away, and she gratefully leans back against the railing again.

“So,” he says, eyebrows raising. “Anything?”

She looks up at him, knowing her face is contorting into a sad smile. She knows she should be able to lie, but she just shrugs. She’s already done so much lying that she can’t stand even one more. “I’m sorry, Will.”

He nods at her, not looking surprised. “I think — for me, too.”

She perks up a little at that, wondering if it’s possible her guilt might be the smallest bit assuaged. “Really?” she asks.

He nods again, staring at her as though he _wishes_ he wanted her.

“What are we going to do?” she asks him quietly.

He paces, just a few feet to one side and then back to her. He grabs her hand softly, and she lets him. “Allie,” he says firmly, “you chose me and I accepted. I’m a gentleman, and I can’t go back on my word. Tomorrow, we’re going to go to Church and say ‘I do’ and then we’ll be husband and wife. And _you_ , Allie — you’re going to make the most _amazing_ Queen.”

She pulls him into a hug. And that, if nothing else, feels nice.

* * *

She stares at the ceiling of her bedroom, now that it’s empty. She knows there’s something about Harry that she’s missing in the recesses of her brain, if she only just _thought_ about it. She knows it’s Campbell — she _knows_ it. She tries to run through every conversation she’s ever had with Harry. If she accepts as truth that Harry wouldn’t willingly step in to hurt her — and she _needs_ to believe that — then something must be happening that she isn’t seeing. She can’t put anything past Campbell.

She remembers perhaps the only answer about Campbell that he’s ever given her that wasn’t completely evasive — when she spent time with him in the kitchen, hiding from her bachelorette party. It had been something about playing cards, sometimes with Campbell. Just sometimes, though. _Sometimes_.

She sits bolt upright.

* * *

There are three casinos on the French side of the border. Gambling has been illegal in Westham for decades, but it’s a thriving industry in France. At first, Allie isn’t sure which of the three casinos she should go to first, but after a quick chat with their driver, Allie was assured there was really only one casino option for aristocrats. Once the driver gets there, in well under an hour, Allie knows his advice was correct. It’s a massive place, with a well-manicured garden and massive columns out front, and a rather restrained amount of neon — for a casino, anyway.

She walks inside, Elle directly next to her, not happy after an entire car trip of unsuccessfully trying to dissuade Allie from actually doing this. Allie walks into the front door, down a long hallway with marble checkerboard tile. There’s a large, welcoming white desk at the end of it, and there’s a short, middle-aged man standing there, staring at her at first with friendliness. Then with shock, when she gets close enough.

“Hi,” she says, leaning her elbows onto the stone counter.

He just gapes at her. “Yes, Your Highness — ma’am — um—”

She smiles in what she hopes is a reassuring way, rather than taking twenty-nine days’ worth of frustration out on him. “May I speak with the manager?” she asks softly.

“Yes, of _course_ , ma’am.”

He leads her around the back, Elle grabbing onto her pink shirt so that she can walk in front of Allie. They’re led through another hallway into a sitting room, where they’re sat down into plush, barely-gaudy ivory chairs, and Allie barely has time to examine the complicated swirls of the carpeting before another man comes out. His face is furrowed in disbelief at first, and then smooths out into what can only be called interest when he sees Allie.

“Your Highness,” he says, walking over to her. “I’m Adam Durand.” He reaches out to kiss her hand.

She doesn’t move, having no interest in allowing him to touch her, even though he’s not at all a bad-looking man. He’s dark-haired with a well-trimmed beard, in a navy suit and gleaming shoes. He sits on a stool across from her, clasping his hands in front of him.

“Shall we go into my office?” he asks, pointing back in the direction he came. “May I get you something?”

“No,” Allie says firmly. “Here is fine with me.”

He nods but looks a little disappointed. She’s momentarily distracted, wondering what he could possibly imagine is happening here. Before she can wonder for very long, Mr. Durand says, “I assume you’re here about Viscount Bingham.”

At first, Allie is shocked. Then — after just a second — she realizes, stupidly, that of course that must be incredibly obvious to anyone paying even a passive amount of attention to the news from Westham. Yet, hearing him say that still does something to her — fills her with warmth and annoyance at the same time. She and Harry are linked, not just within each other’s minds, but to the _world_.

“Yes,” Allie says. “I believe he has debt here.” She says it confidently, even though it’s nothing more than a hunch. But just being in this place is giving her absolute assurance. It certainly seems exactly the correct level of upscale. She can _see_ him here.

“He _did_ ,” Mr. Durand says.

“He paid it off?” She feels her face tensing up, not knowing what she’ll do if she’s wrong.

But he laughs, inappropriately loud. He seems to realize his indiscretion after just a second and stops laughing with a light cough. “No, no, Your Highness. But someone came in here with a _very_ good offer for his debt. And I had to accept, you understand.”

“Who?” Allie asks sharply, knowing who it is, but needing to hear it confirmed.

But he doesn’t. He smiles at her, showing all of his perfectly white teeth. “This is all strictly confidential, of course, ma’am.”

“No,” Allie says, her turn to laugh. “No, I’m going to need copies of all the documentation you have, actually. And your assurance that you will testify, if necessary.”

He looks shocked. “Your Highness — I could not. You’re not — you’re not _my_ Queen.”

She just rolls her eyes, leaning back in her chair. She knows that absolute confidence is the only way she can pull this off. “I’m not anyone’s Queen yet, Mr. Durand. But the day after tomorrow, I _will_ be Queen, and I can make it my first order of business to make gambling legal in Westham. I wonder what that would do to your business? Do you think there are enough rich people in Metz to keep you in business?”

He’s frowning now. “I don’t think the former Queen would’ve done this.”

Allie laughs bitterly at the mention of Cassandra. “No, she certainly wouldn’t have. Times change.”

He shifts in his seat, clearly deciding that the battle isn’t worth fighting. He doesn’t look happy about it, though, leveling a glare at her.

“And who is it?” she can’t help but prod. She knows who it is, but she wants to hear it out loud, from someone who isn’t herself. She needs confirmation that she isn’t crazy, isn’t some sort of conspiracy theorist.

He stands up slowly. “Your cousin. The Duke of Thane.”

“Campbell,” she says out loud, her heart hammering even as she keeps her expression perfectly neutral. She crosses her legs casually, and only spares a perfunctory glance up at Elle, just to make sure she isn’t giving them away. But Elle, of course, looks so stoic that she could easily be a statue. Allie turns back towards Mr. Durand, who’s still standing there. “This is rather time-sensitive,” she adds, making her tone sharp even as she smiles politely.

“Of course,” he says with a nod, and walks to his office.

Allie relaxes her posture, leaning back against the chair. While Mr. Durand is working, she speaks with Elle and sends a few texts to Helena, as always telling her just to choose whatever she thinks is best for the impending wedding. She carefully ignores the texts from Grizz and Sam, and an unusually pointed ‘ _Shouldn’t you be here right now?’_ message from her father.

Then Mr. Durand is back, a stack of papers in hand. Allie flips through them, seeing records from each time Harry has been here. There are documents related to the sale of debt, with Campbell’s signature and the date, just over two weeks ago. Allie nods. She thought she would feel relieved, just having this proof in her hands, but she feels that familiar burn of annoyance throughout her.

“This is very helpful, thank you,” she says, trying to control herself.

“Of course, Your Highness.”

Before she can stop herself, she says sharply, “And Viscount Bingham won’t be allowed back in here.”

“Certainly not,” he agrees slowly.

* * *

She wonders what you’re supposed to do the day before your wedding. Get champagne drunk with your bridesmaids, try on your dress too many times, go over the tiny details no one will notice, blow lovestruck kisses to your fiancé every time the two of you have to part ways.

_‘_ Bailing the Other Man out of his financial troubles’ probably generally isn’t on the checklist.

She opens the front door of Campbell’s house like she lives there, too tired and furious now to think about protocol. She can’t even stand the idea of being let in by someone from his staff, waiting patiently in the parlor for him, giving him advanced notice of her presence. That would be like offering him the upper hand when he’s already so adept at taking it. The door is open, as though he has nothing to fear — and maybe he didn’t, until now. So she just walks in.

His mansion is dark and imposing, with dark paneled walls and half the windows stained glass. She’s been here before, back when she was a child and Sam still lived here. The house seemed different then. The darkness had seemed like something out of a book — something that might be hiding a portal to another world. Back then, these corridors hadn’t seemed quite for formidable. She still finds her way with a light step, knowing the floorplan almost as well as her own. All the things from her childhood in Westham, preserved in amber in her memory, now being forced back to the surface.

When she makes it to the large sitting room, there he is. There’s a glass of whiskey next to him and a book in his hand — like a rich man cliché or something. She would laugh, but she wants to sneak up on him. Just when he takes a drink, she says, “Hey, cousin.”

He almost chokes on his drink, and slams the glass down hard on the marble table. She can’t help but smile; she doesn’t think she’s ever rattled him before. She doesn’t think she’s ever _seen_ anyone rattle him before. It feels good. Powerful. It’s a strange high — maybe this is why he does the things he does.

“Allie?” he says

“I hope you don’t mind,” she says coolly. “I let myself in.”

He stands up, his eyes narrowed in annoyance. “Sit.” His voice sounds like he’s trying to regain his control. She walks over to the couch and sits down gracefully, him following suit a second later. “You’ve come without protection?” Campbell asks conversationally.

“Elle is in the hall,” Allie says, shrugging. “Let me get to the point, Campbell. I was just in France — at the casino. Since you took it upon yourself to buy Viscount Bingham’s debt, I’m going to buy it back from you.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “I can assure you, it’s not worth anything.” Then he grins, that same old grin, his blue eyes crinkling up in a way that should never seem as sinister as it _always_ does. “He’s not really good for much, right?”

She tries not to give him anything to work with, but she feels her jaw clench. “Maybe not to you,” she says slowly.

“Well, the debt’s not for sale.”

“Everything’s for sale. You know something about that.” She hadn’t realized quite how furious she was until now. Not only has he worked ceaselessly to undermine her, to overthrow her, but he had to do it _this_ way. She knows Harry isn’t the strongest man out there, and knowing how much he’s been manipulated just makes her _furious_.

He pauses, a minute too long. His expression isn’t betraying him, but she knows him well enough to know that she’s flustered him. “Just because you’re first in line doesn’t mean—”

“I’m not just first in line,” she snaps, cutting him off. “I’m going to be Queen the day after tomorrow, and you’re extorting a fellow aristocrat.”

He rolls his eyes. “Companies sell debt all the time, Allie. It’s far from illegal.”

She just smiles, and he actually looks disconcerted. “Campbell, you can run me through your legal defense if you want, but I will be Queen and I will bring a case against you if it comes to that. You know what treason is, don’t you?”

He frowns. “That’s not—”

“You’ve already lost,” she interrupts, leaning forward in her seat. “Or are you delusional now, too? We’re cousins, Campbell. I know you. And I know you manipulated Harry into going along with all this. I have proof from the casino. I can get witnesses. Just _try_ me, Campbell. Go ahead. Not only will you lose, but nothing in this world can make you have your place in the line of succession back.”

He stands up, taking his drink with him. She watches his back as he drains the glass. Somehow, it’s like a spell leaves her body, and she realizes that this might be the first time in her life that she isn’t frightened of him. He treats life like a game, and she knows that — for once — she’s too far ahead for him to ever catch up.

Finally, he turns back around, smiling again. He leans against the mantle. “Is this something you’re allowed to use the royal funds for?”

She laughs and rolls her eyes. “I have plenty of money, Campbell.” She pauses, taking a second before saying something that she doesn’t believe in, but knows will piss him off: “ _My_ mother didn’t marry a commoner.”

He frowns. “You’re going to be a shitty Queen, Allie.”

She grins. “At least I won’t have to worry about _you_.”

Campbell walks back to his chair and sits down, leaning back, staring at the ceiling like a moody teenager. “You can’t save him every time, you know. Soon he won’t be under your protection anymore. You think he won’t go back to it?”

“Just tell me a number.”

He laughs, looking back at her. “You’re not going to like it.”

She shrugs.

“Half a million.”

She laughs, not fazed in the slightest. She reaches into her pocket for a check. “Of _course_ it is,” she says, still chuckling. “That fucking idiot.”

Once he’s sent his butler to get Harry’s bills and Allie is writing the check, Campbell just stares at her for a second. “My plan really could’ve worked, huh, Allie?”

She rolls her eyes, finishing signing the check with a flourish. She extends it to him, and he slowly takes it from her.

“I guess I just never thought you’d do what they told you to,” he continues, staring at the check. “Just when you think you know someone.”

“You probably would’ve just put a hit out on me if you could inherit,” she says, matching his conversational tone.

He laughs, like it’s nothing more than a delightful joke. He gets out of his chair. “Guess we’ll never know, huh?”

The butler comes back, a stack of papers in his hand. He reaches out to hand them to Campbell, but Allie snatches them first, rifling through them. She certainly thinks Campbell bumped up the debt a bit, but that’s exactly what she would’ve expected from him. She doesn’t mind paying a premium.

She stands up. “You called Lexie Pemberton this morning, didn’t you?” she asks.

He laughs. “That was a good one, right?”

She nods silently, staring into Campbell’s library through the door. She has a sudden, violent urge to be able to turn back time a month and do all of this all over again, now that she has Harry’s debts in her hands. But she just sighs, trying to expel the thought from her head. “See you at the wedding, Campbell.”

“Sure,” he says shortly, pouring himself more whiskey. It feels like he doesn’t even see her anymore — like he might never have, and she’s just been imagining all of this. “Congrats, by the way.”

* * *

Allie has just arrived back in the castle with Elle, having been intercepted by Helena the second the door of the car opened. Helena is talking furiously about the guest list, and Allie is barely paying attention, instead just clutching all her papers to her chest like it’s something precious instead of just hundreds of pages of documentation. Then her father walks out of a room several feet in front of her.   
Allie freezes, nearly falling from stopping so abruptly. She seriously considers bolting, for just a second, and then James sighs sharply and says, “Allie, come in here.”

“I don’t really have time,” she says, pointing to Helena with her free hand. Her thoughts are scrambled with trying to come up with a plausible excuse for where she’s been for the past three hours.

“ _Allie_ ,” he says, more sharply than she’s ever heard.

Like a chastised child, she walks into the parlor, throwing herself on the teal sofa without complaint, setting the papers down next to her. She watches James close the door and sits down across from her. His face is serious, maybe even edging on annoyance. Unusual for him — he rarely takes anything seriously.

“Why did you do it?” he asks without preamble.

She knows he’s asking about this morning — or last night — but she doesn’t care. “I had errands.”

“What sort of errand could you even have, the day before your wedding?”

“Wedding errands,” she says dryly. “And, well, I’m back, so Helena needs me. You know, we only have, like, sixteen hours.”

She’s starting to stand when James says sharply, “Stop being ridiculous — we have to talk.”

Allie frowns at him, sitting back and folding her arms over her chest petulantly. “We don’t really _have_ to, actually.”

“ _Allie_.”

“Fine. What?”

“Your wedding is tomorrow.” He raises his eyebrows at her.

“If this is a sex talk, I don’t need it, trust me,” Allie says, in a last-ditch effort to avoid whatever is coming.

He rolls his eyes. “Allie, tell me honestly why you went with Harry last night.” He says it in a firm voice, fit for a king, and she feels almost crushed by it. Even after Campbell, and even though that was obviously what James was going to ask, hearing the question out loud wrecks her.

“I just wanted to,” she says, and it’s the truth. Maybe it really can be that simple aloud — it was just her deepest desire working against her fragile impulse control. A losing equation, if ever there was one.

He sighs and stands up, walking a few feet away. When he speaks next, he’s only half-turned back to her, so she can only see his profile as he says expressionlessly, “Look, Al. I don’t care if you’re planning on continuing this affair after your wedding, but you can’t keep going about it this way.”

For possibly the first time in her life, she feels absolutely scandalized. She grips the sofa cushion and barely can prevent herself from running out into the hall. “Oh my _God_ , I’m not having an _affair_ with him.”

He turns back to her, giving her a withering look. “You spent the _night_ with him.”

“Nothing _happened_. I told you that _nothing happened._ ”

“Even if nothing did happen,” he says in a tone that clearly implies that he doesn’t believe that for a second, “you still went with him, right? You still snuck off, all night. You still — I mean, you got caught in a closet with him, Allie. You fell into that fountain. Surely you two must’ve been doing something—”

“— _Fighting_ —” she tries to interrupt.

“—Or kissing?”

“Did Grizz tell you that?”

“He didn’t _have_ to, Allie.” He walks back over to the chair he was sitting on and leans against the back. “That’s how utterly unsubtle you’re being. There are ways to be royal and have affairs. You’re telling me that you think this will all go away the second you get married? We’ve never insisted you be discreet with your boyfriends in the past, but things are different now. If you thought you were under a microscope before, you have no _idea_ what’s about to hit you. There are precautions you need to start taking — that you should’ve been taking a month ago.”

“I’m not going to have an affair with him,” she says in a small voice, as much to herself as to him.

“You aren’t? You can honestly say that?” He stares at her steadily, something about his blue eyes looking particularly penetrating, like he can see straight through her. Like he can see all the way to Harry, where he’s taken up permanent residence as her greatest weakness.

And she can feel it all inside of her, especially after her full day of nothing but Harry. Her complete lack of self-control, her paper-thin willpower, the way every one of her instincts only ever wants to say _yes_ to Harry. Every part of her feels ready to tear, to let Harry bleed out of her and into the open. So she doesn’t say anything at all.

“Helena and Luke and Elle — they can make it work for you,” James says. “Will doesn’t have to know — no one has to know. Monarchs are busy, no one has to know exactly with what.”

She can feel tears in her eyes before she even knows she’s upset. She never pictured herself getting married, but she never would’ve imagined it like _this_. She stares at her hands in her lap, at the huge diamond ring on her finger. It’s Will’s ring, but she spins it around like Harry does with his signet ring. She tries to imagine it — scheduling visits with Harry like she would schedule meetings with foreign dignitaries. Wanting him, just like she does at this moment, for now and for forever, and only loving him behind a closed door. Having the ache she has now for the rest of her life. 

“I really love him,” she says quietly. It’s the first time she’s said it out loud, and it hangs thick in the air between them. “I think maybe always—” She breaks off, looking up at her father like she’s still a child — like this is a problem he might be able to solve. “I just don’t see a way this can end happily.”

The anger seems to melt off his face, and he sighs. “You don’t have to do any of this, Al. You know that, right? There’s still time.”

“There’s no other way.” She’s frowning now. Somewhere along the line, _this_ part of it stopped being a choice. She _will_ be Queen. Maybe it is innate in her, just like they’ve always told her.

“Then that just means you have to be careful doing this thing with Harry.”

She’s still frowning. “I wouldn’t — he wouldn’t — _we_ wouldn’t—”

He smirks, his good humor back just as quickly as it left him. He sits back down across from her. He’s changeable and adaptable, just like she’s always thought of herself, but then why does this feel so permanent? 

“Just in case, then.” His blue eyes on hers are warm, as though he really _has_ sorted everything out for her. And maybe he has.

Maybe it is that simple. She just loves Harry, and last night, she just wanted him to be special — really, quantifiably special, not just within her — for one last time. Before it becomes her own secret, to be locked away. Maybe that’s what will really make her feel like an adult. Finally. Maybe the real secret that adults didn’t tell her is that they just lock away the things that make them happy, a hundred times, a thousand time, until they’re just a shell.

“I have to go help Helena with wedding details,” she says flatly, standing up, unable to say anything else. She grabs her papers, the only thing giving her a sense of accomplishment instead of dread. This time, her father doesn’t stop her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you to my beta/best friend Hannah (emmadecody)!
> 
> Chapter title from Feel Me by Selena Gomez.


	13. saw us getting older, my ambitions were too high

“This must just be absolutely riveting for you,” Allie says, peaking one of her eyes open to give a quick look at Grizz and Sam. Grizz looks over at Sam when she does, but he looks comfortable enough, lounging on the pink sofa in one of the Palace’s third-floor bedrooms. There’s someone wielding black eyeliner at Allie, and she closes her eyes again as soon as Sam smiles at her. “Don’t let them touch my eyebrows.”

The makeup artist makes a disapproving noise in the back of her throat. Bean is sitting next to Allie, getting similar treatment as the Maid of Honor. Helena set them up in this suite of rooms up here because of how quiet and little-used the third floor is. Grizz doesn’t think he’s ever even been up here before. But it’s lively enough now — in this room anyway.

Still, Grizz is unusually agitated.

He’s pacing back and forth around the room, having long-since finished getting ready in his black tux, Allie’s hairstylist putting his hair up into a bun a full hour ago. Sam’s wearing navy, and Grizz keeps sneaking glances at him, glad for the distraction. Those clear blue eyes look even paler against his dark suit, so it’s impossible to ignore the way they follow him, until Sam finally signs, “What’s wrong?”

For just a second, Grizz considers playing it off, but he doesn’t think he can sit in this room for another hour without saying anything. “Can we go talk?” Grizz signs, and then points towards the door.

Sam shrugs but nods, standing readily enough.

“We’ll be right back, Allie,” Grizz says.

Her blue eyes fly open, and the makeup artist jumps back. “Sure,” she says, her eyebrows knitting together suspiciously, but she doesn’t press it. She’s seemed strangely serene all morning, but it doesn’t seem like an option to ask someone why they _don’t_ seem like they’re walking into their doom — especially given the variety of people around who don’t know the situation. His instincts are telling him that she must have something planned, but there’s really nothing else that she can do at this point. So Grizz has just accepted that she’s made peace with her decisions and that Westham will have their queen tomorrow.

He follows Sam out the door, to a windowseat at the end of the hallway, in front of a large, triangular window. “Where is everyone?” Sam signs, inching closer to him. Grizz didn’t even realize how deserted the hallway is until he says it.

“I’m sure Helena has everyone working hard at the Church,” Grizz says with a laugh, sure that she’s probably acting the exact bridezilla Allie isn’t. Then he looks down at his hands, wracking his brain for the right thing to say.

This time, Sam speaks out loud as he signs, “What’s wrong?” He touches Grizz’s arm softly.

“Are you…” Grizz pauses before continuing, “Are you leaving here soon?”

Sam grins, face crinkling as he lets out a laugh. “That’s what you’re worried about? I’m not going anywhere. Allie’s building a healthcare conglomerate — I’ll have plenty of work as an architect. I mean, it’s not, like, an absolute _dream_ project, but it’s pretty cool.”

Grizz buries his face in his hands, so relieved he can’t even look at Sam. He hadn’t realized how tense he’s been until he takes in a breath, and it reaches deeper into his lungs than he knew was possible. He’s been trying not to dwell on it for the last two weeks, but the idea of Sam leaving has been torturing him even into nightmares. He never would’ve known he could get so attached to someone so quickly, but even the touch of Sam’s hand rubbing against his shoulder right now feels transformative, like he never wants to feel anyone else again. 

“Hey,” Sam says softly, voice at Grizz’s ear, and Grizz looks up. “But, Grizz, I know that you—” His hands go still for a second before he continues, “I know that you can’t be _seen_ with me.” Grizz is shaking his head vehemently before he even knows what he wants to say, but Sam plows on, “There’s _already_ rumors, Grizz. I’m — I’m _very_ out. And you’re the _Prime Minister._ ”

And Grizz thinks of the beginning — seeing Sam sleep-mussed and hungover in that hotel room. Grizz’s entire focus should’ve been on Allie, but even in that first moment, he had wanted to know Sam. He should’ve known then that he was long gone. He can barely believe that Sam could think that he might only be the second most important thing to Grizz.

“No, Sam. I’ve never come out because — well, I don’t know, I guess I just never had a reason. But I _do_ now.” He grabs Sam’s hand and squeezes. “I want to find a way to fit my career into this relationship, not the other way around. I would always put you first.”

Sam half-smiles, pulling his hand away to say, “We’ve been dating for, like, two weeks.”

Grizz grins. He doesn’t give himself a second to talk himself out of it before he blurts out, “But I _love_ you.”

Sam tilts his head at him, examining him like he’s under a microscope, in that disconcerting way he has. But then the grin breaks wide across his face. “I love you, too,” he says, and then he’s pulling on Grizz’s lapels until their lips meet. Grizz kisses him fiercely, feeling Sam’s fingers move to thread through his hair. He wonders if it’s really possible that all this could’ve happened, just like this, and now he gets _Sam_.

Not just today, but tomorrow, and in the future, and maybe _forever_.

After a few minutes, they pull away. Sam’s blue eyes look even more clear with the sunlight streaming in the windows, like Grizz could just fall straight in. He knows he’s too giddy, but Sam grabs his hand and tilts his head back towards the rest of the hallway. “Come on,” Sam says. “Allie might be having a meltdown or something. We only have to be her babysitters a little longer.”

Grizz laughs, following after him. This time, when they get back into the room, they both pile on the pink couch, Grizz keeping his arm wrapped tightly around Sam’s shoulders.

Then Allie looks at them, her face immediately turning horror-struck. “Jesus fucking _Christ,_ ” she shrieks, nearly jumping out of her chair. “What happened to your _hair_?” She looks around the room for her hair stylist, who comes rushing forward.

Sam just laughs, and Grizz lets himself be pulled away from Sam and back into the styling chair.

* * *

Harry is lying in bed. He can’t remember the last time he moved. He came straight home after Allie ran off yesterday morning, in the door and then up to his bedroom. Even though he’s barely been back here since he moved into the palace, he had no interest in seeing any of it again. Jane brought him food last night and tried to talk to him, but he didn’t even try to listen. It was like there was a filter over his eyes and ears, and he could barely even hear her.

He falls asleep and then he wakes up, only judging the passing of time by the sliver of window he can see between the closed curtains. Night seems to last forever, and then when the sun rises, bright and clear and perfect, he knows it’s her wedding day. Even the gods are smiling on her.

He just turns the other way in bed, away from the window and away from the garment bag with whatever Jane picked out for him.

Every time he tries not to think of her, she appears in his head. Brighter than the light streaming in the window, brighter than the darkness of his thoughts. Even the image of her is too strong to get out of his brain — the morning before, gold curls wild, blue eyes still half full of sleep, cheeks flushed pink, the weight of her resting against his chest. He didn’t know how good it would feel to be tethered to one place until she anchored him to the world that morning.

He wonders if things would be different if she hadn’t always been a presence in his life. Maybe the difference between then and now wouldn’t be in such sharp relief. It’s only been a month since she’s been back, but something in it was absolutely transformative — seeing her and touching her and wanting her, over and over again until his very DNA felt altered. Those childish fantasies crystallized until they were almost allowed to become concrete plans. But, as always, his follow-through hasn’t improved with the rest of him.

He’s different now, but he’s still bound by all his past mistakes. He never could’ve imagined that falling in love would be absolutely hopeless, just another dead-end instead of an open door.

Every time he closes his eyes, his mind comes up with new ways everything could’ve turned out happily, if he’s just done or said one thing differently. His debts and Campbell and his lack of willpower and his absolute inability to ever open his mouth when it matters. He could’ve sought forgiveness instead of concealment. He’s never once made the right choice.

The only thing he’s ever done right is falling in love with her.

By the time he’s finally calmed down enough to go back to sleep — even with the bright sunlight lighting up the room despite the closed curtains — the door opens.

“Come on, Harry,” Jane says. “We’re going to be late.”

He just buries his face into the pillow. “Go without me,” he says, voice muffled. It takes him a second to realize this is the first time he’s spoken since Allie was running away from him. He can’t even remember the last thing she said to him. Surely nothing less than he deserved.

His bed shifts, and he knows she’s sat down. Reluctantly, he looks over at her. She’s wearing a lace floor-length lavender dress, hair down but with something shiny and sparkly weaving its way through her curls, and her feet still bare.

“You can’t just not come, Harry,” she says flatly.

“She doesn’t want me there. Trust me.” He flips over onto his back, eyes tracing the beams in the white ceiling.

“Sure she does—”

“Jane,” he snaps, rubbing a hand over his eyes, “will you just fucking listen to me for one second? I _can’t_ go.”

The bed shifts again, and Jane is laying on the other side. He tilts his head just far enough to get a look at her from the corner of his eye, and she’s just lying there serenely, also looking at the ceiling.

“You’re going to ruin your hair,” he says, the only thing he can think of.

“It’s just hair.”

There’s a long silence, but it isn’t uncomfortable. In fact, it’s the most comfortable he’s been in twenty-four hours. He can feel his eyelids start to feel heavy, and he wonders if there’s any way that Jane will just leave him here. It would be merciful to not force him to witness his final demise, but just let him feel the aftershocks of it from here. He’ll still hear the churchbells ringing, and he’ll certainly not be able to stop himself from imagining Allie kissing someone else. Married to someone else. Half of someone else’s whole.

“You’re a lot older than me, Harry,” Jane says, her soft voice pulling him out of his own mind gently. “You’ve been here for me over the years — even when you were off at Cambridge. I still remember calling you in the middle of the night and hearing the sounds of the party you were at getting quieter and quieter when you found somewhere to talk to me. That meant a lot to me, you know? And I guess I always thought you knew that you could talk to me about anything, too.”

He sighs. “I can’t watch her marry him,” he says, and that’s the only truth he knows as he feels tears pricking at his eyes.

“I — I watched the footage. I’m not so sure—”

He sits up in bed, starting to be suspicious of where this might go. “I’m not saying that I want her to change her mind,” he says, trying to cut her off. “I want her to be Queen — and this is the only way—”

“Isn’t that for her to decide?” Jane interrupts, sitting up, too. “Does she know you weren’t the one to sic that reporter on her? Does she know _everything_? You’re stacking the deck against her, Harry. How can you expect—”

“The game is over.”

“Is that what this was? A game?”

He sighs and puts a hand over his eyes. “You don’t know the full story, Jane.”

“Then _tell_ me.”

He hesitates for a minute, his first instinct to lie. But then he realized that this will impact her, too, and so he tells her, watching her finally look appropriately horrified. He doesn’t leave anything out — how he felt when their father died, the card games, the casinos, the debts. He lived like consequences couldn’t find him, but when they found him — with some help from Campbell — they destroyed him. How he couldn’t bring himself to ever tell Allie, preferring her to think of him as weak rather than corrupt. The conversations with Campbell, how everything is over now, but he’s still bleeding from it. He’s never felt more bloody and broken before.

“Sometimes I have thoughts,” he tries to explain, “and they’re not good thoughts, and maybe any other person would just ignore them. But somehow I just always end up doing it. And — and — I don’t even fucking know anymore, Jane. The only thing I know is that I just — I just love her so fucking much.” He doesn’t know why he says it like that could ever be his absolution — as though his love for her could ever be something noteworthy, something positive.

“You have been a fucking idiot,” she sighs, standing up and pacing around the room. “A colossal fucking idiot — for _months_ , apparently. But, like, she wouldn’t have been doing all this — especially sneaking out with you — if she didn’t have feelings for you, too. Right?”

“What’s that matter?” he asks, instantly frustrated. He knows he has no right to be frustrated — she’s the one who just learned she might have to go to Westham University next year instead of MIT — but he _is_. “She’s getting married. Like, _now_.”

Jane waves a hand dismissively. “Look, that might be true, but we know Campbell, right? He’s terrible, and he doesn’t give up. You know that better than anyone — he’s ruthless, and you and Allie ruined his plans. You’re really telling me after all that, he’s just going to go to the wedding and sit in the audience? I don’t think he needs you to be present to use you as his pawn, Harry. You’re still next in line. Right?”

He nods slowly. He hadn’t thought about that. He has a flash of intuition — Campbell using his name in a last-ditch effort to manipulate Allie. It burns up inside of him until he’s furious. It’s painful, but it’s better to feel _something_.

“I guess if you want to just leave her to the wolves,” she says, shrugging.

“You’re right,” he says, standing up as she starts walking to the door.

She spins around, a radiant grin on her face. “I generally am.”

“We can’t trust Campbell,” he says, as much to himself as to her. That’s what got him into this mess in the first place. Then he remembers. _See you at the wedding_. That was the last thing Allie said. The words twist around in his brain until they almost feel like a promise.

“Fine,” he sighs. “Let’s go.”

Jane grins and grabs the garment bag, throwing it presumably onto the bed, but it goes a little too far and hits him, full-body. “Hurry _up_ , then,” she says, like the only thing of significance that’s happened so far this morning is him keeping her waiting.

* * *

By the time she’s in her wedding dress, her mind is so preoccupied that she barely glances at herself in the mirror. All the fire she felt earlier in the morning has been extinguished. The white dress doesn’t cause her anything more than a shudder throughout her body now, and then she subjects herself to Helena’s ministrations with an almost clinical detachment. The fabric is twisted and pulled, and she feels more pins put into her hair before soft white lace envelopes her whole body like the most delicate cage.

“How are you?” Helena asks.

“I’m fine,” she says for probably the hundredth time that morning. But it’s only at the subtle raising of Helena’s eyebrows that Allie realizes for the first time that’s not the emotion she should be describing on her wedding day. _I’m great_ , she almost corrects herself, but she knows it’ll just sound sarcastic.

“I think you’re ready,” Helena says with a sigh.

“And the Church?”

“Everything is ready. Everything is _perfect_.” Helena looks proud of herself. It makes Allie a little jealous.

Allie nods. She doesn’t bother looking at herself in the mirror again — Helena can judge any potential flaws much better than Allie — before she walks out of the room. She can hear Helena and Elle trailing after her, but she walks straight for the center staircase and then carefully down. She can feel the pull of the fabric of her dress trailing after her. James, Grizz, and Sam are standing at the bottom, all of them staring up at her with wide eyes.

She doesn’t try to read their expressions. Just the simple act of walking down the stairs is a Herculean task with her heavy dress and high heels. Everything is more difficult these days. She forces herself to look back up at her father again, and he’s smiling at her. She wonders if it’s really a sad smile, or if that’s just what her brain is twisting it into, like a reflection of her own emotions.

“You look beautiful, Al,” he says.

“Thanks,” she whispers.

“How are you?”

“I’m—” she starts, and then breaks off. She’s carefully controlled her emotions for the last hour, but she feels herself teetering on the edge of the cliff for some reason. She looks into her father’s eyes, and she realizes — his eyes are the exact same shade of blue as Cassandra’s. “Let’s go,” she says abruptly, trying to stall her own thoughts.

She knows she must look every bit as erratic as she feels, but no one questions her any further as they leave. She and her father take a limo with dark-tinted windows, the rest of them driving in another limo in front. The drive to the Church feels unmercifully short. Allie stares out the window the whole time, watching as the crowds pass by. They’re screaming and yelling in excitement, even though they can’t even be certain it’s her through the black windows. She remembers watching both the British royal weddings with her friends in Scotland — and the memory feels so distant it’s practically blurry.

“I only want two things,” Allie says softly as the car pulls up to the Church. “But not like — not like we were discussing last night.”

“It’s the easiest way, Al.”

She shakes her head, and finally turns to look at him. At first he’s obscured by the white lace of her veil, but she impatiently flicks it out of the way. “It wouldn’t be,” she says firmly, her heart beating faster now. Her whole body aches, allowing the thought of Harry back into her mind. “I want him too loudly to be able to keep it a secret.” She laughs bitterly and looks down. “I mean, Jesus Christ, look at what a shitty job I’ve been doing.”

“Let’s figure it out—”

“We’re out of _time_.”

He laughs. “The Queen is never late, Allie. They can wait.” He reaches out and tilts her chin up. She looks back at him steadily. He looks serious and confident for once — and, against all odds, she feels a flash of optimism through her. “Harry Bingham is really worth it?” James asks softly.

“Yes,” she says simply, so easily because it’s simply the truth. And then she considers and adds, “And I am, too.”

* * *

By the time Allie walks into the Church, she’s firm in her decision. She even abandoned her veil in the limo, just leaving her tiara on. The wedding procession has already started, so she just gives an encouraging nod as Bean goes next.

She stands alone in front of the open Church doors, her father off to the side. She gives him one quick, fortifying glance before facing the crowd again. Her eyes start to pick out faces — aristocrats she recognizes, a couple distant cousins, Grizz towering over everyone, Bean grinning from the front. Then she reaches to the side and gives her bouquet to Elle, who takes it with a sigh. It feels like handing off her final link to her original plan, and she feels lighter without it.

And she walks down the aisle briskly.

The crowd murmurs at first, but by the time she makes it to the front, the noise level is almost deafening. Will takes a couple steps forward and meets her, his eyes wide. “Allie?” she asks softly.

“Will, we both deserve a chance to find real love, right?” She slides the ring off her finger and extends it towards him. She feels lighter already.

He smiles at her, and then nods. He takes the ring from her, his hands lingering against hers as he leans forward to kiss her quickly on the cheek. “Thank you, Allie. You saved me from doing the proper thing for once in my life.”

She grins. “Good luck with everything.”

His gaze moves from his eyes to scan the crowd behind her, which she realizes has grown silent other than people shuffling to sit down. “Good luck to _you_ ,” Will whispers, and then walks off. It’s her instinct to turn around and look at him — not because she’s concerned, but just because she’s too terrified of her next move. She just takes a deep breath and looks towards the podium. Without another thought, she walks over and stands behind it.

Every set of eyes in the massive crowd is staring at her in shock. Her eyes pick out the members of Parliament before she even thinks about how much she needs to know where they are. Finally, she picks out Campbell, sitting on the very end of the third row, his expression not shocked at all, but rather completely, totally giddy. She looks next to him, but it isn’t Harry.

She knows if he were in the crowd, her eyes would’ve found him first.

Grizz detaches himself from the other side of the Church and walks over to her, standing solidly next to the podium. He looks back at her, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in something that feels like approval. She didn’t know how much better it would feel to have him next to her.

She clears her throat, deciding again just to be brutally honest. There’s nothing that can hurt her now that she’s decided. “A few minutes ago,” she says in a firm tone, “I realized that the only reason I was getting married was because of the antiquated marriage law in this country. That didn’t seem like a good enough reason, so I’m not getting married today.”

The crowd had gone silent when she started speaking, but they’re suddenly loud again. Campbell looks at her steadily, grinning widely.

She thinks about what she and James discussed in the limo, and she continues, “I ask members of Parliament to think about your daughters, your nieces, your granddaughters, and ask yourself: would you force them to do what you’re trying to make me do? I know that — like my sister and my mother and all the generations before me — I will make a great queen. I understand this country, both the wonderful traditions we hold, and the things that we need to improve upon for the health and happiness of everyone who lives here. I love Westham. Do you think that I would be up here in a wedding dress if I didn’t?” She pauses, happy to hear some polite laughter, then she says firmly, “I stand here, ready to take my place as your Queen. Without a husband.”

The crowd applauds, and she turns to Grizz with a radiant smile. She’s about to lean down to get his advice for the next step, but then she sees someone stand in her peripheral vision. She turns towards him, meeting Campbell’s blue eyes coldly.

“Every time my dear cousin opens her mouth, she demonstrates a contempt for the customs of Westham,” Campbell says, half-turning to look at his fellow members of Parliament, interspersed in the portion of the crowd near him. Allie grips the podium so hard she half-thinks she’s going to break it. Then Campbell continues, “The law _clearly_ states that an unmarried woman cannot become Queen. Fortunately, there is another heir.”

“No, there is not,” another voice says, ringing clearly through the Church. Allie looks to the back — everyone in the crowd turning around with a collective gasp — and sees him standing there, staring at her.

Harry.

Through it all, once again, it’s just the two of them. Like it always has been, every time they’ve been in a room together. She feels herself smiling, and he nods at her.

She wishes she could run to him.

“I decline,” he says, standing straight and tall. “I refuse to be King. Ladies and Gentleman, it is Princess Allie who should have the crown. She is smart, and she truly cares about this country. And more importantly, she has a vision — a vision that will take Westham forward. And if Parliament were astute, they would name her Queen. Listen to her — she’ll lead us into the future with grace and dignity. This is just the first in what will surely be a lifetime of innovative ideas.” He smiles at her, then, it breaking over his face and filling her with light. “And, besides, just think how lovely she’ll look on our postage stamp.”

“Lovely on a postage stamp?” Campbell repeats incredulously, the first noise to follow the shocked silence. “Harry — you can’t do this — I— Did she _bribe_ you now that she’s paid off— _?_ ”

Harry looks at her for a moment, shocked. She just gives him a nod and a shrug, not sure what else she can convey from this far away. _Yes, I saved you_ , she wishes she could say to him. _The way you saved me_. And it would be true, in a strange, circuitous way. She wouldn’t have dared to think of this, if he hadn’t taken up permanent residence in every version of her future.

“Anything I’ve done,” Harry says slowly, “I’ve done for the Princess. For my _Queen_. I rescind my place in the line of succession.” He gives a low bow, looks at her steadily for another second, then turns and leaves the Church.

“ _Harry_ ,” Campbell says furiously, racing after him. “ _Harry_ , I’m not kidding — this _will_ have consequences.”

Luke follows them out of the doors, slamming them behind him. Allie knows he must be standing sentry so that they couldn’t get back in even if they want to. The whole Church is silent for a minute, clearly shocked by what transpired in front of their eyes.

Grizz gives a small cough next to her, and she looks over at him. He leans over to whisper, “Make a motion.”

Allie starts and straightens up, having forgotten for just a second what she really came up here to do. She gives one last wistful glance towards the door before clearing her throat, immediately commanding the attention of the room again. “Prime Minister,” she says clearly.

“Yes, Your Highness?” Grizz says, with exaggerated politeness.

“I move to abolish the Marriage Law, as it applies to present and future Queens of Westham.” He nods to her, giving her a small, approving smile. Then she looks back at the remaining members of Parliament. “Will anyone second my motion?”

“Stare them down,” Grizz whispers at her, and she looks from each member to another, firmly but non-threateningly.

Then, much to her surprise, the oldest and most respected member of Parliament — the very one who instituted the thirty-day rule on her in the first place — the Duke of Beaumont, stands from the middle of the crowd. “I second the motion,” he says firmly. “Your Highness, you are from a long line of great queens. It’s time we honor that.”

She can’t help but grin, gripping the podium tightly to try to contain her excitement that this is actually working out. She wishes she could be jumping up and down instead.

“All those in favor of abolishing the marriage law, please say ‘aye’,” Grizz says, suppressed eagerness in his tone even as he stands there as stoically as always. For just a second, Allie marvels at what a pillar of strength he’s been for her. She must’ve done something right during her life, to deserve having him as a friend.

Then, the members of Parliament slowly start standing up, each saying “Aye” in succession, until all seventeen are standing in support of her.

“The ayes have it,” Grizz says, a smile on his face now, small but glowing. “Your motion carries, Your Highness.”

The crowd cheers, and she reaches out to grip Grizz’s arm in excitement. She sees her father standing at the back of the Church, between all the people standing and cheering, and he raises a hand at her languidly, like he never worried for a single second what the outcome would be. She lets out a startled laugh, and then she’s back to grinning, feeling like it might split her face open. She can feel tears in her eyes.

Then Grizz corrects himself, “Your _Majesty_.” And Allie can’t help but give him a hug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe we're almost done!! Next chapter will be out October 17/18 and the final chapter the weekend after.
> 
> As always, thank you to my beta/best friend Hannah (emmadecody)!
> 
> Chapter title from Rare by Selena Gomez.


	14. I’ll tell you all my secrets, wrap your arms around my weakness

The morning of her coronation, Allie barely has time to revel in the feeling of excitement before she’s giving interviews to the press. For once, the words flow out of her naturally. Her pride and happiness is all so genuine that she can’t help but speak eloquently. She can barely remember the misgivings she had about coming here, just a few weeks ago. Her only problem during her interviews is that she can barely keep her smile restrained to the appropriate lines. Grizz, Sam, Bean, and Gordie trail her all morning like ghosts, and they’re all so happy it just seems to multiply.

There’s a small break after the round of interviews, and she pulls Helena aside. Helena, as always, commanding the room with her quiet competence, and Allie almost laughs at how bitter she’s felt towards her the last couple weeks. It wasn’t Helena’s fault she was such a harbinger of doom with her omnipresent wedding planning.

“What is it, Your Majesty?” Helena asks as they step into the library. Allie doesn’t notice James had followed them until he’s there, trailing past them to the shelves. Allie starts a little at the title usage, but — for the first time — it doesn’t feel like a bad omen. The smile that’s been on her face all morning is back in a flash, and then Helena is giving her a soft smile in return.

“Helena,” Allie says, “I don’t know if you’re aware, but I am planning to restructure Parliament — the, uh, diversity of thought is lacking, to say the least. The restructuring will take some time, but in the immediate future, there will be one opening available. That spot is yours, if you’ll take it.”

Helena sits down hard in the nearest chair, and Allie barely restrains a laugh as she sits down on the green sofa across from her. She looks up and sees James grinning widely.

“What _spot_?” Helena asks, and Allie wonders if this is the first time anyone has managed to be a step ahead of Helena in anything.

Allie laughs, a bitter edge to it. She leans back against the sofa and folds her arms across her chest. “I know I can trust your discretion, so I’ll tell you now. I’m filing a lawsuit against Campbell as soon as I take the throne. He will be stripped of his title, his entail, and his place in Parliament. Sam will gain all of it, of course, but he cannot take his place in Parliament.” Allie can’t help but smirk.

“It would be quite a conflict of interest,” James adds, matching her expression.

“Besides, he doesn’t want it anyway.”

Helena’s eyebrows raise, and the seconds tick by as she looks at Allie in disbelief. “This is — quite unexpected.”

“I’m sure we would appreciate if you could help us transition the next person into your role,” Allie adds.

Helena just laughs and gets up, throwing herself onto the sofa next to Allie. “I’m honored, Your Majesty,” she says, and then hugs Allie.

Allie gives one wide-eyed look at James, who looks nothing short of delighted, and then she returns Helena’s hug warmly. “I really couldn’t have done any of this without you, Helena. And I can’t think of anyone else who would be a greater asset to this country than you.”

They sit there, in their little bubble, for a few more happy minutes. James comes over to sit down on the coffee table, offering his own warm congratulations, then stretching his legs languidly. But the moment is over quickly, Helena telling Allie after just the shortest respite that it’s time for the flaming arrow ceremony.

With everything else Allie has been worrying about over the last forty-eight hours, she had nearly forgotten about it, but that doesn’t make it any less disconcerting when, just minutes later, her old instructor hands over the flaming arrow with an insultingly anxious look on her face.

Allie tries to take a deep breath, but it’s even harder than during practice, with the audience and press so close behind her. She’s only done it successfully once.

She closes her eyes, just for a moment, remembering that time Harry was behind her. She can still feel his hand on her shoulder and her hand, his words in her ear. And she takes his advice again, relaxing her stance and resting her hand against her mouth. Then she breathes in and releases.

And just like that time, it sails gracefully through the very center of the ring. She spins around, grinning in triumph.

But, of course, he isn’t there. It’s just the press and the Palace staff. Her smile fades until she’s just giving a polite, perfunctory smile at them.

She’s wanted this for so long, but she feels Harry’s absence like an ache. 

* * *

“She’s in the throne room,” Helena says. Harry had thought he’d done a good job of sneaking into the castle with all the hustle and bustle of preparations for the coronation; it was stupid to think he could ever sneak around Helena. She’s standing there, expression serious but not unkind, one hand on her hip and her ever-present iPad in the other.

He gives her a weak smile. He’s always been more than a little terrified of her aggressive competence. “Thanks,” he finally says, and she lifts her eyebrows at him combatively, but he turns around and walks towards the throne room. He glances around the main foyer, which is clearly where the ceremony is going to be held — there’s a large, ceremonial throne in the center of the room, and Westhamian flags are scattered everywhere.

He keeps his head down and walks into the throne room, finally looking around once he steps into the room. The light from the windows near him illuminate her where she’s sitting, all the way across the room, curled up in one corner of her throne. She’s just wearing a green St. Andrew’s sweatshirt and leggings — clearly not in her formal attire yet. She looks so pretty in her loose ponytail, curled up so comfortably that he almost wants to turn back around and walk out. He can’t imagine he can give her any happiness today, as much as he wants to.

Then he takes a deep breath and straightens his shoulders. “Happy Coronation Day,” he says.

She starts, her eyes immediately going to him. She jolts half out of her throne, and in that split-second, his mind filters through different options for what she might do if she ran over here: slapping him, kissing him, telling him to go fuck himself. But instead she just sits there, right on the edge of her throne, her hands gripping the edge of the seat hard for a minute before she crosses her legs casually. Even from here, he can see a smile playing on her lips, and he can’t help but grin.

He feels relatively safe now. He shoves his hands in his pockets and walks to her, unable to stop a thrill through his spine at the way she watches him so carefully. Just seeing her is like gasping for a breath after being underwater, like he hadn’t known how much he needed her until she soothes the ache.

“Harry,” she says when he stops a few feet before the throne’s raised platform. Her crossed leg bounces a little in excitement.

“May I have an audience?” he asks, playfully formal.

“Do you have a chicken for my table?” she shoots back, matching his tone.

He laughs, and it makes him feel free, and then she laughs too, and he feels the lightness he’s been chasing for so many years with all his escapist hobbies. He jumps up the step and walks to her, stopping close enough to her to touch her. She doesn’t move, but he can see her flush. She shifts, and her hands go back to gripping the seat.

“I’m sorry,” he says, barely more than a whisper, unable to move forward without saying it. His giddiness and smile fade.

She looks up at him, her ocean-blue eyes wide and suddenly serious. “You could’ve told me everything,” she says gently.

“I didn’t want—”

“Why not?” she interrupts, not gentle anymore, but she still doesn’t seem angry.

“Because it would’ve turned out the same,” he says, taking a step away from her. She’s too hypnotizing, like he could rip out his whole soul and present it to her. “I was indebted to Campbell and in over my fucking head. I knew — I knew if I brought you into it, nothing would’ve changed. I thought it would destroy my family. I know I shouldn’t have done any of it, Allie, but I just didn’t know what to do. I never fucking know what to do.” He runs a hand through his hair, knowing that his explanation was — like everything about him always is — inadequate. But it’s all he has to offer, and he holds his hand out, palm-up, just for a second, as if to add: _Well?_

“I could’ve helped.”

A cold laugh rips out of him — angry as his own lack of imagination rather than her actions. “Clearly — Jesus Christ. You did more than _help_ — you did the whole fucking thing.”

She just shrugs and then asks, “It wasn’t all to punish me?”

He winces and shakes his head vehemently. He walks back to her, stopping right in front of her again. “Of course not, Princess.”

She nods, her furrowed brow smoothing out as she looks up at him. “You won’t do anything that dumb again?”

The future tense jolts through him, and he barely suppresses a smile. “I shall never endanger us with my stupidity again,” he says, jokingly formal again, bending his back in a slight bow. He straightens up and adds, “After all, I hear I owe you rather a lot of money.”

She waves her hand dismissively, and then she reaches out for his hand. He takes it like a lifeline, threading their fingers together. “You’re not going to pay me back,” she says quietly but firmly. “It’s just money.”

He wants to argue, but he’s too distracted by her touch. Instead, he just rolls his eyes. “Princess. Why did you do it?”

“Campbell said you weren’t worth it,” she says, and he reflexively grips her hand more tightly as he winces, just remembering how disposable he was to Campbell. Then she continues, “I guess he thought you were worth destroying, but not saving. But, Harry — you know, to me, you’re always worth it. I would fight a war for you.”

He looks at her, at her steady blue eyes, at her whole body framed by the golden scrolled throne, where she looks perfectly comfortable. She belongs here. And he’s never felt so secure, but he still feels the last of his insecurities leaking out as he admits, “I really thought you were going to marry him.”

“I did, too.” She doesn’t sound any happier about it than he does. “But I couldn’t do it, Harry.”

He imagines it, just for one nauseating second, watching the coronation on TV, watching the sparkling diamond on her finger and Will standing next to her throne as she has the crown put on her head. And he exhales it away, shaking his head to try to dislodge the thought.

“I love you,” he says, it bursting out of him. He didn’t mean for his voice to sound this raw, but he feels like he could cry if he doesn’t tell her. She inhales softly, her face unreadable, and he says again, “I just love you so much, Allie.” He grips her hand tightly, taking a half a step closer.

Then she stands abruptly, yanking her hand from his. He’s startled, just for a fraction of a second, and then her hands are on either side of his face. He’s held in place by her, and he has no desire to move. “I love you, too, Harry.”

He hadn’t known the uncertainty was another weight until it’s gone. He leans his head downward, still somehow expecting a blow, but he looks into her eyes, smiling just a little at first, and then he’s grinning. It feels like all their burdens are gone.

Then she throws herself into his arms. Her body is tight against his, shaking with laughter as she says, “Say it again — happier this time.”

He can’t help but laugh as he happily acquiesces. “I love you, Princess.”

Then he pulls back just enough to kiss her. For the first time since they were dumb teenagers, kissing her is just _kissing her_. For once, there are no other emotions to impede them. He kisses her wildly, his lips and tongue only calm down to coherence when the pleasure jolts through him in that warm, familiar way. His hands grip her waist, tugging on her to make sure she’s flush against him. Every time before, there was something wrong — their youth or their stupidity or all of these games. Every time they’ve kissed, he’s never been able to imagine anything better, but this feels like a whole new experience. It’s like he can feel something shift with him until he can breathe only her, think of only her. To be able to kiss her freely, with no encumbrances, is an entirely new level of good.

He knows this is it for him. Nothing will ever be better than this.

She pulls away from him after another long minute. He stares at her, so happy he can barely contain it. She must feel it, too, because she hugs him again, his lips pressing against his cheek and jaw.

He laughs, adjusting his grip to hold her around the waist, more tightly this time. “God, I love you so fucking much,” he says, delighted and amazed. Then, before she can say a word, he lifts her off the ground and spins her in a circle.

She’s laughing, and he is too. She feels light as air, and so does he, like they could both float away on this happiness and live on it forever.

* * *

Allie waits behind the closed door to the double staircase off the lobby. Through the door, she can hear the noise from the waiting crowd, but she just clutches at her gold-and-cream dress, trying to get a deep breath in. Elle, standing next to her, puts her hand out and gently rests it comfortingly on Allie’s shoulder.

Allie looks at her, and there’s a rare smile on Elle’s face. “Don’t be nervous, Your Highness. And congratulations.”

At first, Allie just smiles back, but then she lurches forward and pulls Elle into a hug. When she pulls back, Grizz is there next to her, and she hugs him next without even a thought.

“Everything is ready for you, Allie,” Grizz says.

Allie pulls back with a laugh and straights Grizz’s tie minutely. “Can you believe we ended up here, Grizz? It feels like just a second ago that you crashed my hotel room demanding I come home.”

He smiles, so wide his face crinkles up. “I knew you had it in you.” 

“I didn’t,” Allie says with a self-deprecating laugh.

And she didn’t. She still isn’t quite sure, but she finally realizes that there’s no way to be sure of anything. She knows that Cassandra should still be here, in the crown Allie is going to have placed on her head in just a few minutes, but Cassandra isn’t here. Allie looks to the side and tries to envision her, just for a second, but she realizes that now it’s just her. And she can depend upon herself.

She tugs at the small star necklace omnipresent around her neck, feeling some of Cassandra’s strength pulse through her, and then she nods. “I’m ready,” she says.

The doors are thrown open and the orchestral music starts. She walks down the stairs carefully, Elle holding onto the train of her gown. She takes a sweeping look of the small crowd assembled — mostly Parliament and a few other choice aristocrats. Then she spots Harry, standing off to the side next to Gordie, Sam, and Bean, and she can’t help but feel her small, polite smile widen. He’s grinning, beaming at her with pride.

She gets to the ground and walks over to the ceremonial throne, only used for coronations. She turns, straightening her dress as she sits down. The music stops, and all eyes are on her. Rather than feeling disconcerted or even frightened the way she would have a few weeks ago, it just makes her sit up taller, her back perfectly straight, and her head tilted up just slightly, waiting for her crown.

The Archbishop of Westham takes the ceremonial crown from a small, violet pillow and picks it up, saying with authority, “Will you solemnly promise and swear to govern the people of Westham, according to the statutes in Parliament agreed on, and the respective laws and customs of the same? Will you, in your power, cause law and justice and mercy to be executed in all judgments?”

Allie looks at her father, who’s standing the closest to her. He doesn’t seem to be aware of the gravity of the ceremony, because he’s standing with the most casual of postures, leaning against the bottom stair rail as though he just happened to wander in. He gives her an encouraging nod and a wide smile.

Allie turns back to face the front and says firmly, “I solemnly promise so to do.”

She feels the weight as the crown is placed on her head, and her smile widens. She picks up the orb and scepter in front of her and stands up as the Westham Anthem begins to play. She looks at Sam with a smile, and he grins proudly back at her. Then she notices Will is here, Kelly at his side. For a second, she’s startled, and then she smiles again, knowing with certainty that they can be friends from now on. Then she looks at Harry again, realizing suddenly that she’s glad for all their battles; she doesn’t think she would feel as secure right now if she hadn’t been tested first.

The National Guard steps forward, raising their swords in salute, and she walks forward carefully underneath them until she gets through the end, standing in the light streaming in from the open door. She takes a deep breath as she is announced: “Presenting Her Majesty, Allie Eliot Pressman, Queen of Westham.”

She feels the applause surrounding her, and she can’t imagine being any happier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week: the epilogue!
> 
> As always, thank you to my beta/best friend Hannah (emmadecody)!
> 
> Chapter title from Vulnerable by Selena Gomez.


	15. have no fear, heaven is near

Her arms are draped over his shoulders, loose around his neck, her body flush against his. Her head is buried in his shoulder, and with all the movement and noise around them, he can still feel her warm, even breathing against his neck. Harry knows they’re too close to each other, the only thing giving them any semblance of privacy is the veritable walls of other couples surrounding them. This is the Palace’s largest Christmas Eve party yet, and Allie steadfastly spent the first several hours of the evening pulling him around, talking to anyone and everyone. He didn’t mind — he loves playing buffer for her; now that they’ve been dating a little over a year, he knows all her warning signs and exactly how to smooth everything over before the wrinkle even appears.

So she deserves a break, and she seems happy to take it. Her face looks smooth and contented, and he turns to kiss her forehead softly. They don’t mind being public — after all, even in the beginning, they never tried to keep their relationship private. Not because of the preexisting rumors, but because it would’ve simply been impossible to keep secret. Harry can barely speak without speaking of her. And he can’t speak of her without praising her.

He loves her beyond restraint.

It’s strange to think of how much his life has changed in the year they’ve been together. He had never really dated anyone before, so being thrust into conflicting schedules, new duties the castle forced on him, the occasional spat, and the not infrequent jealousy whenever Allie came in contact with men who seemed too friendly. But he’s worked on himself, too, every week in therapy. Those issues between them were just blips, and they’ve taken their two lives and merged them. Harry practically lives here — unofficially, of course — and no longer in the bachelor’s wing, either.

The ballroom smells like vanilla and cinnamon — like Christmas itself. His gift to her feels like it’s burning a hole in his pocket, but he tries not to think of it. Instead, he just thinks of her, tracing circles on her back, and that’s easy enough. Touching her and thinking about her is no longer filled with that old desperation, but it’s better somehow. They’ve memorized each other in every way, now, and he loves her. She shifts minutely in his arms, and he feels desire for her burning over him like the first time.

She pulls back enough to look at him. She smiles a slow, lazy smile and then leans in to kiss him softly. “What are you thinking about?” she asks.

“You,” he says honestly.

Her hand goes to his hair, stroking the back of his head gently. “Want to sneak out?” she asks, her hand tightening in his hair.

He grins and gives her a once-over — her sparkling blush ballgown, so beautiful it’s shocking. And her silver tiara, the diamonds looking like clusters of snowflakes. “I can’t imagine they won’t notice your absence, Princess,” he says. “Have I mentioned how gorgeous you look?”

She grins but says in a mock-combative tone, “What about _you_?” She looks him up and down, her eyebrows raising. He feels himself flushing, unable to stop himself from _wanting_ her. “We’ll be back,” she says decisively, letting go of his shoulders to grab his hand. She tugs him expertly through the crowd and out the door.

He follows with a laugh.

* * *

She thinks she’s done a pretty good job of hiding how anxious she is from Harry. It was easy enough at first — inviting _so_ many people to the party ended up being a stroke of brilliance in every way. Mixing and mingling served as both a distraction and an excuse for her agitation. When she bragged about her new, state-of-the-art hospital to anyone who would listen, she almost forgot her plans. Gordie oversees it with an iron fist, and even fellow aristocrats have been going.

Grizz and Sam came together and one or both of them was with her for the early part of the evening. They’re a very official couple now, without any real backlash besides a few eyerolls from members of Parliament who were retiring anyway — or being semi-coerced into retirement. Parliament is much less of a chore now that the median age has gone down a full two decades, not to mention diversity in every other way possible as well. The old, archaic laws on the book are being slowly redacted, starting with the law stripping any aristocrat of their place in the line of succession if they marry a commoner. It was enacted retroactively, giving Sam his place in the line of succession back. Not that Allie really anticipates any further succession issues, but it was nice to give something extra to haunt Campbell.

She really always has loved Christmas the most, to the point of cliché. Even with all her new expectations, this party is always _fun_. Harry flips on his charm and follows her with practiced ease, that familiar smile still managing to steal her breath on several separate occasions. She can’t help but pull him out of the ballroom, kissing him once they’re alone. And then she drags him to the throne room. Her heart is pounding, and she shoves him towards the throne.

“Sit,” she says, taking a step back.

He looks at the throne and then turns his wide brown eyes back on her. “I’m not really… supposed to sit here,” he says slowly.

“You tried to steal it, and now you won’t even sit in it.”

He laughs, startled, but sits down amiably enough. He does look good there, the gold throne against his suit so dark green it’s almost black. He always looks so good in her world. They’ve merged them into one, over the last year and two months. And she’s never been happier.

“Here’s the thing, Harry,” she says, her brain scrambling when he stares at her. She doesn’t know why — she’s used to being under pressure by now. She’s in meetings all day, every day. But, for some reason, Harry looking at her so earnestly is still enough to throw her off balance. Especially when she’s about to say something so hugely, monumentally important.

“Yes, Princess?” he prompts. She’s not a princess anymore, but he likes to say it and she likes to hear it.

“I love you,” she says, watching his face soften. His head tilts down as though he hasn’t heard it before, just his eyes looking at her. “Do you remember that time when we were teenagers — it was Christmas then, too?”

He laughs. “Of course I remember.”

“I think I may have loved you, even then. Maybe before then. You’ve always been beyond compare, Harry. And now — after this year together — I can’t imagine anything else. I love waking up next to you in the morning and talking to you when we fall asleep. You’ve loved and supported me when I’ve needed you, and I hope I’ve done the same to you. I know this life we lead isn’t simple, or easy, and there are going to be times that it fucking _sucks_ , but—”

“I would do anything with you, Allie,” he interrupts, his voice so sincere that the last of her anxiety melts away.

“Will you marry me?” she asks plainly.

He laughs again, one hand going in front of his eyes for just a second. It’s certainly not what she expects, and — even though she trusts Harry down to her bones — her eyes widen, prepared to be hurt or offended.

“You’re _always_ a step ahead of me,” he says, still chuckling. He jumps off the throne and is over to her in just couple strides. Then, he fluidly sinks onto one knee and pulls out a red velvet box. He flicks it open, and there, nestled inside, is a large round diamond ring. “Allie Eliot Pressmen, I’ll certainly marry you if you’ll marry me.”

Her mouth falls open, staring between his soft, warm smile and the ring.

“Yes,” she says, grabbing his hand and pulling him up. “Oh my God, _yes._ ” Without even considering the ring, she throws her arms around him and kisses him. Softly at first, enjoying the familiar feeling of him, but then she feels her excitement overflowing out of her, and she pulls back with a laugh.

He grabs her hand softly, a wide smile on his own face, and then he gently slides the ring onto her finger. She looks from the large, oval diamond to his face. “God, I love you,” he says, laughing with relief. He pulls her hand up to his lips and kisses it softly.

“I guess you did get to be king, in the end,” she laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my best friend/beta Hannah.
> 
> Chapter title from A Sweeter Place by Selena Gomez. 
> 
> I can't believe this fic is over :( I wish we could've had more of the show to look forward to. Thanks so much to everyone for reading and commenting! Feel free to reach out [ on tumblr @Hallie-Society](https://hallie-society.tumblr.com/) <3


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